The Queen That Was Promised
by AWanderingSoulSometimesLost
Summary: AU. 'She couldn't turn out ridiculous in front of him by saying nothing. She had to say something – anything. "Do you…" 'Say something, or he'll think you stupid.' But what? "Do you believe in prophecies?" She blurted out in one breath.' Cersei shares the secret with Rhaegar and everything changes (or turns out just like it was supposed to). I own nothing.
1. I

Her ears filled with soft buzz made of words, laughter and music, Cersei Lannister absently pushed food around on her plate with a fork. The world was blurred beyond the veil of her own distracted thoughts; the emerald eyes of the young lady Lannister didn't see any of it, not the dancers, not the musicians, not her brother(s), not her father, not the King, not even the Crown prince (though she did see him in her mind's eye, for he was the one of the reasons for her distress). In her mind, she was still standing in Maggy's home (if anyone could call such a dump home), the witch's words echoing not only in her ears, but in her very soul.

" _When will I wed the prince?"_

" _Never. You will wed the king."_

Surely that could only mean she would wed Rhaegar after he became king, she mused. But why wait for so long? It could be years before King Aerys breathed his last and the Realm would need an heir to secure the line before that.

" _I will be queen, though?"_

" _Aye. Queen you shall be…until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."_

More beautiful? Was that not a proof that Maggy's words were naught but lies? Over the years, Cersei had been told more than once that no-one could match her beauty and that she would only grow to be even lovelier than she was now. How could there ever be a woman more beautiful than her?

 _And yet, the prince barely seems to notice me_. She cast a quick glance at the object of her longing, but on her left, Rhaegar seemed just as lost in his thoughts as she was in hers. She doubted he had shown any more interest in her over the course of the evening than he did now. _Does he not think me beautiful? Am I as ugly as Maggy the Frog in his eyes?_

No, she couldn't be. She was beautiful, everyone told her that. Jaime had told her that and he never lied to her. _But my prince does not see it. Does it mean that, in his eyes, there is someone more beautiful than I? A younger queen that will cast me down – unless I cast her down first._

What could she do to draw the prince's attention? If it she couldn't capture his heart through her beauty, what could she offer him so he would have to acknowledge her?

" _Will the king and I have children?"_

" _Oh, aye. Three for you and six-and-ten for the person closest to your heart. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds. And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."_

 _Valonqar_ – it meant 'little brother' in High Valyrian, the septa had told her.

She glanced at her right where her siblings were seated, torn between adoration and scorn. Jaime, her twin, her other half, and Tyrion, the monster who had taken her mother from her. Jaime was whispering conspiringly into Tyrion's ear, making the three-year-old giggle. Cersei tore her eyes away from her brothers immediately, unable to stand the joy on that ugly little face. It made her hands clench into fists (though she unclenched them just as quickly, because showing anger wasn't befitting of a lady). Not even Jaime's handsome face (the reflection of her own) was enough of a temptation to bear seeing the little monster in her line of vision. There was no doubt in her mind who was supposed to play the part of the _valonqar_ from Maggy's words.

But how could she know if the prophecy was even true? How could she have three children and Rhaegar six-and-ten? It made no sense. Unless he followed in the steps of Aegon the Unworthy and sired bastards all over the Seven Kingdoms.

(She would not stand for this, ever. Either he would be hers and hers alone––or no-one's.)

But, she thought as she stole another glance at the Crown prince, he simply didn't seem like a man who sought pleasure from any woman deemed attractive enough. There were pretty girls of his own age in the hall too, but he paid no attention to any of them. She hadn't a heard a single gossip about any lady taking his fancy that might indicate he was familiar with having affairs. Therefore, she was safe to assume that he wouldn't show such disrespect to a wife who would give him three children – and that Maggy's words truly were just lies the witch had told her to spite her.

 _But Melara died (she fell –_ _ **fell**_ _)._ Cersei couldn't ignore that…coincidence. _Just like the witch had said she would._

( _It served her right, though, for desiring things that belong to me.)_

These thoughts were again giving her a headache. She had told herself none of it could come to pass if she just forgot about it, but she couldn't remove the prophecy from her mind no matter how hard she tried. It refused to slip from her thoughts like sand through fingers (or like memories of Mother, whose face and scent and gentleness and _love_ now she could barely summon to memory), stubbornly clinging onto the edge of her consciousness every moment of every day. Not even watching the Prince joust, his long white hair floating about weightlessly as he rode into victory against his opponents (except for Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning) had managed to silence the voice inside her mind that told her it was all true and there was nothing she could do to prevent it from happening.

An idea crossed her mind, her last hope of restoring peace within her soul, if only for a few brief minutes. Perhaps if Rhaegar agreed to play his harp for her…

"My prince?" She turned to him directly for the first time that evening, urging her treacherous heart not to betray her. It couldn't beat faster even if she were facing an actual dragon instead of the dragon prince.

A few moments that passed as she waited for those stunning violet eyes to meet hers felt like a lifetime to Cersei. Their colour was nearly indescribable, not quite flowers of rosemary, not quite pearls. Dressed in black and red, the colours of his House, he looked so regal and composed, as if he had expected her to address him. His expression was impossible for her to read; in that moment, it cost her her nerve and she couldn't even remember what she had intended to say to him.

"Yes, my lady?" He asked indulgently after a few moments of silence, but she could find no trace of true interest in his eyes.

Still, she couldn't turn out ridiculous in front of him by saying nothing. She had to say something – anything.

"Do you…" _Say something, or he'll think you stupid._

But what?

"Do you believe in prophecies?" She blurted out in one breath.

Instantly, it was as if the world shattered like glass; every piece shifted for a heartbeat and then fell back into place, only the pieces didn't fit quite as before. Cersei found herself the object of the Prince's undivided attention, his gaze as intense as she had ever seen it.

"What do you know of prophecies?" In his desire for an answer, he had unknowingly placed his hand on her forearm, as if to prevent her from escaping before she provided one. "My lady?" He added after a moment, more as an afterthought.

Cersei could barely wrap her head around the fact he was showing no intention of ridiculing her. Her own father would have scoffed at such question and told her to keep her childish fantasies to herself, but Rhaegar was actually taking her seriously.

"I…" She cleared her throat; the intensity of his gaze was unnerving. "A woman once told me things – what she claimed would happen to me in the future."

Still convinced he would start laughing at her at any moment, she was surprised to see him lean closer to her, so they wouldn't be overheard by Cersei's brothers, or their fathers, who were sitting on Rhaegar's left.

"Who is this woman?" He whispered into her ear, his breath brushing her skin. Cersei couldn't help herself but shiver, for more reasons than one.

She knew better than to lie to the prince, but how could she tell him she had gone to see the witch to find out whether she would be married to him? She wouldn't be able to bear looking him in the eyes after that.

"A woman in the market in Lannisport." She followed suite and leaned closer so she could whisper into his ear. It was triply beneficial, for she got to speak with him in confidence, hide the lie that might be seen in her features and breathe in his sweet, delicious scent. "I only saw her that one time. I don't know her name."

He remained silent for a moment, as if thinking about how such obstacle could be overcome, but then he turned to her again.

"What did she tell you?"

She breathed in deeply; how much should she tell him?

"She said I would have three children." For a moment, the violet eyes flashed gold, but the spark was gone so soon Cersei wasn't sure if she had imagined it. "'Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds. And when your tears have drowned you, the _valonqar_ shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.'" She quoted the part that had been plaguing her the most, her voice growing quieter with each word.

For a moment, Rhaegar's eyes separated from hers and glanced briefly at something behind her back.

" _Valonqar_." His gaze returned to her face. "Do you know what it means?"

"'Little brother'." She answered eagerly, hoping to impress him with her knowledge.

He nodded solemnly, without any remark on her knowledge of High Valyrian. She was disappointed with his lack of praise, but set her frustration aside when he once again glanced at her brothers.

"Jaime would never…" She started to explain before the prince could utter a word, eager to defend her twin, but her voice drifted off into silence. Just _saying_ Jaime would hurt her felt like she was choking. It just _wasn't_ possible Jaime was the _valonqar_ from the prophecy.

Judging by his knowing gaze, Rhaegar didn't miss her defending Jaime, but not Tyrion.

"Do _you_ believe this prophecy to be true, my lady?" He asked. "Do you believe _any_ of your brothers would ever do you harm?"

 _Tyrion killed Mother._ _Why wouldn't he one day decide to kill me as well?_

"If I've learned anything about prophecies," Rhaegar said after a few moments had passed without her answer. His tone was strangely soothing, as if he was trying to comfort her, "It's that they rarely come true in the manner we expect them to. From what I gather, the woman didn't say it was _your_ little brother who would…"

The silence fell on them so abruptly it startled Cersei. His hand, which had been resting on her forearm nearly for the entirety of their conversation (and she hadn't even had the chance to enjoy his touch properly, so engrossed in the subject they'd been discussing), gently slid down the sleeve of her crimson dress and grasped hers.

"Forgive me." His fingers intertwined with hers tenderly, making her heart flutter inside her chest. "I didn't intend to frighten you."

 _I am a lioness. Lions fear nothing._ She wanted to say, but didn't. The feeling of her hand in his was too pleasant to risk losing it over her pride. But the cold dread the prophecy caused within her cut through the warm feeling of the prince's touch like an arrow through air, swiftly robbing her of the sweet bliss.

"So, you're saying…" She hesitated briefly, the meaning of his words starting to weigh heavily on her shoulders, "That _any_ little brother in the world could be the _valonqar_ from the prophecy?"

"Any little brother _and_ sister." He corrected her in a lecturing tone, like a tutor would. "There is no distinguishing between male and female in High Valyrian. For example…"

He must have noticed her horrified expression, for he fell silent again, leaving the lesson in High Valyrian unsaid. Cersei felt her heart thundering, blood growing cold in her veins. Her hand was shaking in Rhaegar's; despite knowing she was appearing weak in front of him, she couldn't hide her fear.

"Forgive me." She heard him say again. He never actually apologized, she noticed, only demanded forgiveness. _Of course he does not_ _ **ask**_ _for forgiveness, you silly girl, he's a prince. Nobody can deny him anything._ "I've only scared you even more."

 _Yes._ She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to pull herself together, but failing. _It could be anyone –_ _ **anyone**_ _! There are so many younger siblings! But_ _ **why**_ _? Why_ _ **me**_ _? Why have I done? I don't want to die, I don't want to die!_

The anxiety she was feeling made her physically ill; she couldn't bear even the sight of food, lest she threw up on the prince.

"If you'll excuse me, my prince." She got to her feet urgently, grabbing the crimson skirts embroidered with gold without a glance at the prince or her brothers or her father.

In a matter of seconds, she had left the great hall and was rushing towards her chambers, almost stumbling over the edge of her dress a couple of times. She heard voices calling after her, like ghosts that were haunting her, but the words were indistinguishable, lost beneath the clicking of her heels as she ran. When she finally reached her chamber, she slammed the door shut behind her, cutting off the voices. She ran to her bed and threw herself on it, not caring that she might accidentally rip the satin dress. She pressed a pillow against her belly, as if it might shield her from invisible daggers she felt were stabbing at her from all sides, and finally allowed the tears to fall down her cheeks.

 _I don't want to die, I don't want to die! Not like Mother did!_ Voices screamed inside her mind in fear and anger and desperation. _I want to be with Jaime! I want to marry Rhaegar! I want to be the Queen! I don't want to die!_

"Cersei!" Jaime's voice came from the other side of the door, along with thudding that suggested he was trying to tear her door down with his fists. He sounded breathless; she had no doubt that he had run after her the moment she had left the great hall. "Cersei, what's wrong?"

"Go away!" She screamed back, not wanting anyone, not even him, to see her in this state. "I don't want to see _anyone_!"

Her rejection didn't discourage him. "Cersei, please, let me…"

"No!" She cut him off sharply. "Leave me be!"

She thought he would ignore her and burst into her room without her permission (even though he had never done that before). Part of her wanted him to do it, wanted him to come in and wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be alright because he would never let anything happen to her. He would protect her with his life, destroy everyone who would try to harm her – she didn't doubt that.

He was not the _valonqar_.

"Cersei," He called out gently, but even with the door between them, she heard every word clearly. "Just tell me you're alright and I'll leave you be."

The answer – the lie – was stuck in her throat.

She was not alright. She might never be again, knowing there was someone out there who would one day come seeking her death.

But she couldn't tell Jaime what troubled her. She had told Rhaegar and now she wished she hadn't. She wished the prince had dismissed her words as childish nonsense, rather than planting a thought inside her head that _any_ younger sibling might one day be the end of her. It would be easier to just hate Tyrion.

However, it seemed she couldn't afford that anymore. No matter how much she disliked the thought of being nice to Tyrion, there would be one _valonqar_ less in the world she would need to worry about if he thought her a loving sister. She would have to suppress her revulsion in Tyrion's presence; if Jaime could do it, then so could she.

"I'm not feeling well." She called out faintly. She might have decided she would do everything in her power to avoid the ending Maggy had predicted, but the beginning of that battle would have to wait until tomorrow. "I can't go back to the feast."

"Do you want me to send for a physician?" Jaime asked in concern that at the same time warmed her heart and irked her. She just wanted to be left alone, couldn't he see that?

"No." She said, careful not to let irritation sneak into her voice. "Please, give my regards to the prince."

For a moment, silence lingered between them. In the end, neither of the twins broke it.

"Jaime," Tyrion's voice reached Cersei's ears. "Is Cersei sick?"

 _Like you care._ She wanted to yell, but remembered her decision regarding Tyrion and remained quiet. Being kind to him wouldn't come easily to her; for now, she would go with _not_ being mean.

"She will be fine tomorrow." Jaime answered confidently; he knew she was listening. "Come, let us go back to the feast."

Thankfully, they finally took his leave, the sound of their (reluctant) steps drifting away in the distance.

Cersei let out a breath of relief and allowed her eyes to fall shut. She saw Rhaegar's face in the darkness behind her eyelids, serious and attentive. That was the first and the only time he had seemed entirely focused on her. She couldn't understand why he would be interested in the prophecy when, until tonight, he hadn't shown any real interest in Cersei herself (still much to her disbelief and disappointment). He didn't even know the prophecy involved him.

What had captured the prince's attention then? And why did Cersei feel she was missing something?

* * *

"My lady, your father is here. He insists that he must speak to you."

For a moment, Cersei considered scolding the maid and threatening to have her beaten for waking her up; surely a new day couldn't already have dawned.

Grudgingly, she opened her eyes. The room was dark, lit only by a few candles. Outside, there was only darkness, as black as the well which Melara had drowned in (she had _fallen_ into the abyss, on her own, _on her own_ …).

Cersei noticed the crimson of her clothes; she was still wearing the satin dress from the previous night. She must have fallen asleep sometime after her talk with Jaime.

Jaime. _Valonqar_. The prophecy.

Suddenly, the memories came rushing back and words froze in her throat. Her eyes wide open, she found Father standing at the door, staring at her face to make sure she had awakened. She stood up instantly, smoothing down her dress quickly (and unsubtly) as if that could erase all the wrinkles that had appeared on the fabric as she turned in her sleep.

"Leave us." Father told the maid without taking his eyes off his daughter.

When they were left alone, Father approached her, his hands clasped behind his back, as if she were a vassal whom he would soon intimidate into submission. His expression was stern but otherwise unreadable. Cersei swallowed hard, her knees feeling as if to give way at any moment, but she forced herself to keep her eyes on his. She knew he was furious with her for having left the feast (and the prince) so abruptly, but he would grow even angrier if she let him know how terrified she was of his wrath. He had never struck her before, but tonight she had a dreadful feeling she might meet the full extension of his displeasure.

"Do you know what you did tonight?"

His question didn't include the word 'why'; Tywin Lannister didn't care _why_ you did anything. He only cared whether you did what he wanted you to do (and gods have mercy on you if you didn't).

Cersei cleared her throat, willing her voice not to shake.

"I left without the King's permission." She said; despite her efforts, her voice wasn't quite even. "I brought disgrace upon our House."

"You're aware of it." He nodded. "Good."

He took another step towards her. She couldn't help it, she took a step backwards, her knees bumping into the edge of the bed.

"When I saw you running off like a madman, at that moment, I couldn't even think of a suitable punishment." She found that hard to believe; Father could be quite imaginative when it came to punishing people who displeased him. "The King said that he would have had you whipped for your insolence… were you anyone else's daughter."

Some distant part of Cersei's mind, one that wasn't completely overcome with fear, noticed the briefest pause Father had made in his speech. She stored it safely somewhere for later, when she had the time and wits to think on it.

"He also announced that your behaviour tonight would have no influence on his opinion on the match between you and the Crown prince."

In spite of everything, Cersei felt her heart leap inside her chest with joy. Her happiness must have shown on her face, because Father's eyes narrowed, rendering her silent.

"He'd decided, even before arriving to our home," The coldness in Father's voice was harsher than the northern wind, "That he wouldn't accept the betrothal between you and his son."

For a few heartbeats, Cersei couldn't even breathe, so overwhelmed was she with disbelief. It must have been some kind of mistake, a misunderstanding. Why would the King reject her, the daughter of his Hand, the (second) most powerful man in Westeros? Her family was the wealthiest and she the loveliest maiden in the Realm; who could be a more suitable match for the prince than her?

 _The King must think I'm ugly too._ Tears of disappointment appeared in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked rapidly a few times, trying to keep them at bay. Crying was the most obvious display of weakness, but she couldn't restrain herself. Why didn't the King see how beautiful she was? Or perhaps everyone else had been lying to her.

(Not Jaime. Jaime wouldn't lie to her. The King must be blind, the fool.)

Self-loathing turned into fury. She was angry with the King for rejecting her, with Father for not persuading the King to accept her, with Aunt Genna for assuring her she would be betrothed to the prince, with Prince Rhaegar for not falling in love with her, with Maggy for cursing her…

"But," Father's voice cut through her litany of names and accusations, "All is not lost."

Cersei raised her head to look in his green eyes. Suddenly aware she had clenched her fists in her rage, she relaxed them and tried her best to imitate Father's poised posture as she waited for him to elaborate.

"After my talk with the King, Prince Rhaegar came to see me and insisted adamantly you are to leave with us for King's Landing tomorrow." Was it just Cersei's imagination or did Father's lip curl in triumph? His mouth hadn't formed anything resembling a smile since Mother's death. "Despite the discourtesy you showed, you'd clearly made quite an impression."

 _Rhaegar himself had asked for her?_ Cersei's heart started thundering inside her chest fervently, its beats echoing in her ears. The prince hadn't gone to his father and insisted he would marry only her and no-one else, which would have been preferable, but for now, this sign of affection would suffice.

(Unless he had only asked for her out of mere interest in the prophecy––he hadn't. He _couldn't have_.)

"As far as everyone is concerned, you are coming to serve as my cupbearer." Father was, as always, blind to her inner turmoil, already having moved on to other matters. "You shall observe and learn – and one day, if you master these lessons, you will rule Westeros."

Cersei blinked in surprise. Father had never showed any willingness to teach _her_ anything. His hopes for the future lay with Jaime; her brother had the best tutors gold could buy; in swordplay, politics, money distribution. Father had even taught him some things himself during his visits to Casterly Rock, making Cersei green with jealousy. Unlike her twin, she was expected to have enough knowledge of certain things so she wouldn't embarrass the House Lannister, but Father had never bothered to spend time with her. She was a woman and therefore unworthy of his attention.

Until now, it seemed.

"I won't disappoint you, Father." She vowed. _I'm smarter than Jaime and_ _ **far**_ _more beautiful than Tyrion. I'm a Lannister. I will make you proud._

She was once again taken aback when Father cupped her cheek gently. His eyes burned into hers; for a moment, she thought he might kiss her on the forehead. The prospect made her shiver – he had never shown such tenderness to anyone but Mother.

"You are your mother's daughter." He said at last and let of her face, but the intensity of his gaze didn't lessen. "She too disappointed me once. I forgave her, just like I will forgive your tonight's lack of judgement. She never disappointed me again."

Cersei swallowed hard, but forced herself to nod in acknowledgment of his warning.

He turned around and left the room without another word. It was only when she could no longer hear the sound of his footsteps that air filled Cersei's lungs, her knees giving way beneath her, landing her on the bed. Emotions roared within her like lions fighting for dominance over the pack: anger, joy, fear, hope.

 _Rhaegar has asked for me._ It was the penultimate thought that went through her mind before she fell asleep again.

 _I will be Queen._

* * *

"Cersei. Cersei!"

She was woken up by someone hissing in her ear and a hand on her right shoulder shaking her. Startled, she sat up straight, her gaze trying to cut through the nearly complete darkness of her chambers. Her outstretched hand reached out to where she thought she was seeing the outlines of the intruder and landed on soft skin of a cheek. It took her a moment (and the feeling of the trespasser's hand gently caressing her cheek) to recognize her twin.

"Jaime!" She hissed back warningly, casting an apprehensive look at the door of her chambers. What if he was caught in her chambers at this hour? What if Father learned of it?

It was easy for Jaime to be reckless; his punishment would be painless, a few hours of practicing swordplay replaced with studying history or some other activity he loathed. But Father might punish _her_ by leaving her in Casterly Rock, miles and miles away from Prince Rhaegar.

She would never, ever forgive Jaime if he ruined this for her. She would hate him for his betrayal forever.

"What are you doing here?" She removed her hand from his face and slapped his away harshly. "If anyone sees you here…"

"Tyrion is distracting the guard." He interrupted her before she could finish the sentence.

So, he had roped the little beast into this machination too? Was he an utter idiot? Tyrion would surely blab out.

"Nobody will ever know I was here." His voice grew a little louder. He sounded hurt by her rejection, but right now, she didn't care. She just wanted him to leave.

"I need to talk to you." He said before she could insist that he left.

Even though she couldn't see his face in the dark, she could hear his desperation in his voice. It stirred something inside her chest, a tug at the bond only twins shared. Her hand looked for and found his; when he tried to snatch it out of her grasp, she wouldn't let him.

"Then talk." She ordered firmly. She could guess what he wanted to talk about, but his words wouldn't sway her. He would leave her behind without hesitation if he'd been offered to squire for the prince of Ser Arthur Dayne; why should she show him any compassion?

Tense silence lingered between them; Cersei could hear her own heartbeat. It unnerved her, but she didn't interrupt it, waiting for Jaime to muster up the courage.

"I heard Father talking to servants." He said at last; there was an accusing note to his tone she most certainly didn't appreciate. "They said you were leaving with him for King's Landing tomorrow."

"I am." She confirmed without a beat, pride sneaking into her voice as she said: "The prince himself asked for me."

His hand jolted in hers, but she didn't relax her grasp.

"Why?" He asked icily.

She refused to admit Rhaegar's interest in her was seemingly coming only from his interest in the prophecy she'd been told, not in Cersei herself. Whatever his reasons were now, they would soon be irrelevant. She would make him love her for _her_ , not for some lies a witch had told her.

"Does it matter?" She let go of Jaime's hand, angry with him for questioning her decision. She was going to King's Landing and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. "I can't really say no, can I?"

Silence fell upon the room again; the only sound that could be heard was their harmonious breathing. For a moment, Cersei thought her brother had left without another word; part of her was relieved, part of her was dejected.

"So one day, you will marry the prince and be his Queen, like you've always wanted." Jaime's upset voice reached her ears. _And you will forget me and everything we've shared._ "Like that drawing you painted?"

So he had seen through her lie. She had thought herself so clever for tricking him.

"Yes, I will be Queen." She said spitefully. She would not feel bad about any of this. "Your sister will rule Westeros. You should be glad. I will have the power to give you whatever you want, to make you…" She took a deep breath of excitement as she looked for the right word, " _Anything_."

Judging by his silence, he didn't share her enthusiasm. His hand found her cheek again; this time, she let him keep it there.

"I don't want anything." His warm breath caressed her lips, sending a wave of heat through her body. The scent of his skin invaded her nostrils, so sweet and familiar. "I want _you_. Just you."

She wanted him too, his arms around her, his lips on hers. But she also wanted so much more. She wanted to be Queen. She wanted Rhaegar. She wanted power. She wanted the world.

She wanted Father's approval.

Jaime couldn't understand that. Tonight, for the first time she could remember, Father had praised her. He'd been _proud_ of _her_. In his mind's eye, he'd seen the bright future of the House Lannister that _she_ would bring.

She wanted that future. The Golden Queen, poets of forthcoming days would call her. _Or The Crimson Queen, bathed in blood of those who dare stand in my way._

She couldn't have that future with Jaime. Her future lay with Rhaegar.

She placed her hand over his, leaned forwards and kissed him on the lips. Her tongue pressed softly against his mouth in invitation; it took him only a heartbeat to respond. He pressed her body against his and deepened the kiss, their tongues caressing gently.

She was the one to break the kiss, pushing at his chest with her hands.

She couldn't see him, but she looked straight at where she guessed his eyes were. He needed to know she wouldn't change her mind.

"Goodbye, Jaime."

For a moment, everything stood as if frozen. Then the weight on the bed shifted and she couldn't feel Jaime's chest beneath her palms anymore. She watched as the thin streak of light appeared when the door opened; a moment later, she was left alone in the darkness.

 _I will be Queen._ She repeated to herself as she lowered her head onto a pillow. She would be Queen and everyone, including her brothers and her father, would have to bow to her. _The Golden Queen. The Crimson Queen._

 **I know similar storylines have been done before, but I wanted to write my own spin on the version where Cersei and Rhaegar (eventually) got married. He needed three heads of the dragon and she was fortold that she would have three children, so I thought 'Why not make those two prophecies one and the same?' As you've probably noticed, I made one slight change regarding Maggy's prophecy, but the rest remained the same (the phasing at least).  
**

 **Reviews are very much appreciated. I find writing the characters as true to cannon as possible one of the most important things, so please, tell me if there's any OOCness present. If you have any other comments, I'd love to hear them too. Also, I want to apologize for any grammar or spelling mistake, because English isn't my first language. I hope they won't bother you too much.**


	2. II

**Thank you all for your encouraging response to this story. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. Blame it on Rhaegar Targaryen. I do. I don't think I've ever come across a character that's more difficult to write. (Alright, I'm partially to blame as well. I admit I was binge-watching _Black Sails_ when I could have been writing...But I'm not George R.R. Martin and I'm allowed to do things other than writing. I'm don't get paid for it (unfortunately).)**

 **Warning: Spoilers (can they even be called spoilers, because it all actually happens before ASOIAF... Nevermind.) for The World Of Ice And Fire. Expect a reference or two per chapter. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I think I like TWOIAF more than the actual series.**

Sun was already high in the cloudless blue sky when the large party that was going to accompany King Aerys back to King's Landing gathered in the yard. Men shifted their weight from one foot to the other, half of them impatient to finally climb on their horses and see the road beneath their feet roll off into the distance and the rest waiting to see off their lord and his daughter before returning to their errands.

Mild breeze lifted Cersei's hair off her shoulders as she stepped out of shade of the castle into the sunny day, causing the long blond locks to dance elegantly to its tune. Its gentle touch made her eyelids even heavier; she had been awake since dawn and the lack of sleep from the previous night had begun to take its toll on her. She had spent hours gathering her belongings for the journey, choosing proper clothes to wear today and sitting stiffly as her maids eliminated all traces of sleep from her face and hair. Dressed in a crimson dress that covered every part of her skin safe for her face and hands, with a long cloak the colour of sand that matched the golden bodice embroidery on her shoulders, she looked as lovely as ever, but she couldn't wait to finally rest in the gilded carriage she, her two maids and septa Saranella would travel in. Just the thought of soft cushions she would soon be able to rest her head on was enough to make her struggle not to yawn. She stifled the need quickly as she advanced towards Father, who was standing next to his horse and talking to Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna. Giving in to sleepiness would have to wait until she could hide behind crimson curtains of the carriage.

"Cersei." Her aunt first noticed her approaching. Her lips curled up in an encouraging smile. "You look stunning, darling. A true lioness."

Cersei acknowledged her aunt's compliment with a nod, but her eyes were glued to Father. Did he approve of her attire? Did he think the prince would like it?

"Say your goodbyes." Father said after having briefly nodded in approval. He also seemed impatient to finally be on the road. "We're leaving as soon as the king arrives."

Cersei looked around in search for her twin. Jaime was standing nearby with Tyrion and Uncle Gerion, all three dressed in crimson and gold, with the lion sigil embroidered on their chests. The latter two were laughing at something, but frown that twisted Jaime's face suggested he might never smile again. His emerald eyes met hers; he looked away almost instantly, his mouth forming a thin flat line.

Ignoring the dull ache inside her chest, Cersei raised her head high and walked over gracefully. Laughter died on Uncle Gerion's lips as soon as he saw her approaching. He would never admit it, but she felt the youngest of her uncles harboured a slight resentment towards her, likely because of her behaviour towards Tyrion. Gerion was genuinely fond of the little beast, perhaps because he knew that, aside from Tyrion being a dwarf, he and his nephew were the same – the youngest brothers who would forever live in the shadows cast by their much more gifted siblings.

"Is that our beautiful Cersei?" The warmth of Gerion's smile didn't quite reach his green eyes. "You're surely going to be the loveliest cupbearer King's Landing has seen since Princess Rhaenyra."

 _ **Queen**_ _Rhaenyra._ Cersei felt very protective of the woman known by many names, not all as flattering as 'the Realm's Delight'. _She was denied what was rightfully hers only because she was a woman. Aegon spent nearly entire war licking his wounds and yet he is called king._

"Thank you, Uncle." She nodded, keeping her eyes on his. She could feel Jaime's gaze on her face, but couldn't bring herself to look at her twin just yet. Despite having told herself she didn't feel bad for leaving Jaime, part of her just refused to be convinced of it. "I…I've come to say goodbye."

"You'll be back soon, won't you, Cersei?" Tyrion chipped in with a hopeful look on his face.

 _I'll never come back and I'll be happy knowing I'll never have to see_ _ **you**_ _again._

The words were on the tip of Cersei's tongue, but she reined in her malice. The threat of the _valonqar_ hung over her head ominously; she shouldn't provide Tyrion with reasons to want her dead. She needed her brothers at her back, like Father had Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna. A Lannister could only trust a Lannister – and not even all Lannisters were trustworthy.

( _Uncle Gerion is also a younger sibling. And so are Uncle Kevan, Aunt Genna and Uncle Tygett. What if one of them is the valonqar? What if…_ )

She looked at her youngest brother, whose hope faded away from his features bit by bit with every moment that passed without her answer. He seemed to genuinely cherish her company, while she could barely bear being in his. The mere sight of his face reminded her of Mother. If he hadn't killed her by coming into this world, maybe…

"I don't know when I'll come back." She said solemnly, shrugging her shoulders. It was the kindest tone she remembered ever having spoken to Tyrion.

" _If_."

As one, she, Tyrion and Uncle Gerion turned to Jaime. Her twin's glare cut through her like a blade, his rage the colour of blood pouring out of her imaginary wounds.

"Say it as it is." He said fiercely, but his darkened eyes betrayed his pain. "You don't know _if_ you'll come back."

Cersei wanted to slap him, to scratch him, to _hurt_ him – to make him stop hurting her.

"Of course I'll come back." _As Queen, so you will all have to bow before me._ "I'm a Lannister of Casterly Rock. I always will be."

"Stop sounding like your father." Uncle Gerion interfered before Jaime could answer. When Cersei turned to him, his green eyes were fixed on her face. "One Tywin is already too much for me."

"Cersei!"

Father was gesturing to her to join him. She knew his patience wore thin quickly, but she couldn't leave things like this with her brothers. For a moment, she hesitated.

 _Just do it. It'll be months, maybe years, before I see him again. Close your eyes and imagine it's Jaime._

She squatted down and wrapped her arms around Tyrion, who was so taken aback by her sisterly act that he petrified in her embrace.

"Goodbye, Tyrion." She said swiftly and stood up straight.

Then she turned to Jaime, who looked just as stunned by her actions, and threw herself at him, knowing his instincts would never allow him to let her fall. His body was warm against hers and she let herself breathe in deeply, savouring his scent for the long days she would be separated from him.

"Don't forget me." She whispered into his ear. _Don't turn against me. Don't betray me._

His warm breath tickled the skin of her cheek. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her, thus pledging his eternal loyalty and devotion to her, but then his lips brushed softly against her ear.

"Goodbye, Cersei."

At those words, she froze in his arms.

The coldness of his voice was slipping into her veins through cracks whose existence she had been firmly refusing to acknowledge. She was rendered speechless, lost in this impossible situation where he dared use her own words against her – where he dared _reject_ her.

 _Have I driven him too far away? Have I made him the valonqar?_

His grasp on her grew tighter, pulling her so close their chest touched as they breathed and she could swear she could sense his heart beat in harmony with her own.

"Be safe, sister."

He tenderly let go of her and took hold of Tyrion's hand. For a few moments, Cersei could only stare at her brothers, who were both reluctant to meet her eyes, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. She had never felt so out of control over what was happening – except for during her visit to Maggy. The ground was unsteady beneath her feet (or was it just her thundering heartbeat that made it seem the world was collapsing around her?).

"Cersei!"

She swallowed hard and rushed to her father's side swiftly like wind. Gasping for breath, she caught sight of his stern face and looked away instantly, fighting to keep her composure. This whole ordeal seemed to be going so wrong, since the moment she had made the most foolish mistake and told the prince about the prophecy.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Prince Rhaegar came into her view, dashing and elegant as ever. He was quietly conversing with Ser Arthur Dayne, walking only a few steps behind the King as they exited the castle. The two men, with hairs shimmering silver in the golden rays of sunlight, looked less like a prince and a knight and more like brothers. The man they called the Sword of the Morning nodded at something the prince said; then, for a brief moment, both pairs of violet eyes met Cersei's. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from smiling; had her prince commanded Ser Arthur to defend her life as fiercely as he would defend the king's or the prince's?

When King Aerys mounted his horse, men followed suite, while Cersei, her maids and the septa climbed into the carriage. As horses moved forward, Cersei looked out through the window, casting one final gaze at her childhood home. Tyrion and Aunt Genna were waving at her, but her eyes looked for Jaime.

At the last moment, just before she would lose him from her sight, her twin raised his hand in farewell.

Her lips curled into a victorious smile.

No-one, not even him, could break the bond between them.

( _Perhaps she could, if she really,_ _ **really**_ _wanted to_.

 _But why would she want to?_ )

* * *

Dragonfire might have long since turned straw, wood and flesh into ashes, but the remains of Harrenhal refused to bow down to the passage of time. Nearly three hundred years had passed since Aegon the Conqueror had bathed the proud black walls in flames and yet they still stood defiantly, denying wind, rain and man dominion over the stone. It was a fascinating sight, a reminder of a time when dragons and their riders ruled the sky and everything beneath it.

"My prince?"

"Arthur." Rhaegar gestured to his friend to join him without separating his eyes from the stone blocks in the distance. Sounds of men making camp echoed behind their backs; there was little danger of their conversation being overheard. "Does my father suspect anything?"

In the corner of his eye, he saw the knight shaking his head.

"You have played your part well, my prince." He said, his voice calm and certain. "He views Lady Lannister's presence as the Hand's scheme to see her as your wife and the queen of Westeros. He doesn't suspect your involvement."

Rhaegar nodded. "And Lady Lannister?"

"She seems…" It took a few quiet moments for Arthur to find the right words, "Upset by your apparent lack of interest in her."

Rhaegar sighed. He had been aware that distancing himself from the girl wasn't a perfect solution, but he couldn't allow his father to learn of his part in bringing her to King's Landing. With his paranoia growing with each passing day, Aerys would surely take any trace of Rhaegar's interest in Cersei Lannister as his son and his Hand's plot to remove him from the throne. It was for the best that he believed it had been Tywin's idea to bring his daughter with them. The Hand was already guilty for numerous crimes in Aerys' mind; one more would make no difference.

However, his detached behaviour had clearly wounded Lady Lannister, especially after he'd so unwisely shown strong interest in her and the prophecy she'd been told. At this point, he couldn't afford her to think ill of him. If her prophecy was true (and it would seem just too much of a coincidence not to be), it _guaranteed_ she would have three children – who, if fathered by him, could indeed be the three heads of the dragon. Even if their children (it was such a strange notion – _their_ children) died before her, as her prophecy suggested they would, it was still enough time for the three to prevail over the darkness. Rhaegar presumed he would be greatly saddened by his future children's deaths, but the war against the pale, sapphire-eyed monsters from his visions had to be won, or they would all be lost.

( _As for the identity of the valonqar…He found the choice of word strange. Why use the Valyrian word… unless it was someone of Valyrian blood who would play the part?)_

But in order to achieve victory, he needed three warriors bound by fire and blood. And for them to come to be, it seemed he needed Cersei Lannister and her good will.

"I need to speak to her." He mused out loud, turning to Arthur. "Before we reach King's Landing."

The knight nodded his agreement, but his expression was far from confident.

"It won't be easy, with your father watching your every step." He glanced at the camp briefly. Even though the king was nowhere in sight, both the prince and the knight felt the eyes of Aerys' spies on them. "He fears you might fall for golden hair and a pair of striking green eyes and be lost to reason."

 _Like he did._ Everyone knew about Aerys' obsession with Joanna Lannister, even though nobody dared speak of it. Rhaegar recalled vaguely she had indeed been a beautiful woman, but Aerys had let his worship go too far. He wouldn't repeat his father's mistake with Joanna's daughter; besides, his interest in Cersei Lannister streamed only from what she could give him in the future.

( _Still, her eyes_ _ **were**_ _striking, even he had noticed that._

 _But it didn't matter. No matter how alike they might look, he was not his father and she was not her mother._ )

"Have you ever wanted to be a prince, Arthur?"

Arthur shot him such a baffled look Rhaegar felt his lips forming a grin. There weren't many things that could make the Crown prince laugh; if Arthur wasn't so overwhelmed with disbelief, he would probably be glad he had managed to lure a smile to his friend's face.

"Can't say that I have, my prince." The knight said calmly after he'd gathered his wits, but traces of confusion could still be seen in his features.

Rhaegar turned his gaze back to Harrenhal in the east, where first starts had already started to appear on the sky.

"Well, you're about to become one for a night."

He turned his back on the ancient ruins and headed for his tent, with Arthur at his back. One man would sleep in there tonight and the other would stand guard in front of the king's tent for a half of the night. Even the sharpest eye would be unable to distinguish the features of the Kingsguard under the weak light of stars, but everyone would recognize Dawn on Ser Arthur Dayne's back. When his duty was done, he would disappear into the shadows where nobody's eyes would follow him, because the spies' task was to observe the prince.

Hopefully Lady Lannister wouldn't mind a late-night visitor.

* * *

Fire outside provided so little light it was only thanks to her long hair that he managed to distinguish her sleeping form from her maids'. Soft and straight, it nearly reached her waist, while her maids' hair was curlier and shorter, barely stretching past their shoulders.

The golden locks (as black as his own in the dark) were soft against his skin: for a moment, Rhaegar felt almost irresistible (and utterly unexplainable) desire to run his fingers through them, as though they were strings of his harp. He was only snapped out of his musings when she moved her head in her sleep, her hair slipping out of his hands easily, without causing any pain that could wake her.

He seated himself at her side, breathed in deeply and leaned over her. One of his hands found hers in the dark, while fingertips of the other roamed her face before he pressed his palm gently against her mouth. After a few heartbeats, she was startled awake, her free hand grabbing his in panic. She tried to pull it away from her face, but he couldn't let her alarm neither her maids nor the guards sitting by the fire outside.

"My lady?" It was hard to whisper reassuringly into her ear while she struggled to escape his grasp, but he needed her to calm down. "Please, I need to speak with you."

His pleads fell on deaf ears; her nails ran deeper into his skin, causing nearly enough pain for him to let her go. His arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her against him so she wouldn't squirm out of his hold. She lived up to the sigil of her House, scratching and even attempting to bite his hand like a trapped lioness. It was only the fear of being discovered there that allowed him to bear the pain, but he wouldn't be able to restrain her for much longer.

"I will let you go, but you need to remain quiet." His lips brushed against her cheek; so close their faces were to one another. "I only want to speak with you, but I can't be seen here. Please."

Reluctantly, she stopped resisting. He gradually relaxed his hold on her, still feeling the warmth of her breath on his palm even when their skins no longer touched. The moment she was free, she jumped away from him, the fearless lioness now more reminiscent of a scared dove. Suddenly, he felt the sheets being pulled from underneath him; he stood up and let her wrap them closely around herself, even though her modesty was in no danger in the shadows surrounding them.

"Who is that?" Fear and defiance coloured her voice in equal measure.

"Prince Rhaegar, my lady." He could barely discern the outlines of her face in the dark, but it seemed her breathing had pacified. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I…"

"How do I know you _are_ the prince?" She cut him off with a hiss, moving away from him warily. "I can't see you and you are speaking in whispers. You could be lying."

Her suspicion and boldness caught him off guard; for a few moments, he could only stare into the dark. He had forgotten how young she was, more a child than a woman. Still, he had already been having visions of the upcoming war at her age; if he could have borne that burden on his own for so long, there was no reason why she wouldn't be able to cope with it.

"A woman in market in Lannisport told you you'd have three children and that you would die from the _valonqar'_ s hand." He whispered calmly as he sat down again; it was the only way to indisputably prove his identity, as he doubted she had spoken of this to anyone else but him.

She drew a sharp breath at his words, as if he had struck her. It occurred to him a moment too late how cold he must have sounded. He opened his mouth to remedy that ungallant act when she spoke first.

"I apologize for doubting you, my prince." She murmured, her voice growing quieter with every word. "I just…I didn't…"

"It's alright." He interrupted her fragmented (and unnecessary) apology. Her reaction hadn't been unexpected, given the circumstances of his visit, but it _had_ left him rather impressed. Not many ladies he knew would try to fight their way out of an intruder's clutches. "I should apologize for disturbing your rest."

"You are the prince." She pointed out softly, seating herself next to him. _You have the right to disturb anyone's rest._

For a few moments, they sat in silence, staring, but not actually seeing each other.

It was a unique talent of Cersei Lannister, Rhaegar mused, to make him at loss for words. He had never experienced that difficulty until meeting her, first when she had asked him whether he believed in prophecies and now when he was trying to find a way to bring up that very subject. He wasn't even sure how much about his own prophecy he should tell her. He had carried that burden alone for so long he didn't know how to share it.

"Can I ask you something, my prince?"

He nodded briefly, and then remembered she might not see it.

"Of course." He answered reassuringly, hoping his tone would encourage her to continue. The right words might come to him more easily if he let her speak first.

She hesitated for a few heartbeats, piquing his interest. If she wanted to know what had brought him there, she surely wouldn't be as reluctant to ask him. It would be a sensible question.

"And you will be honest with me?" She breathed out uneasily.

Her request surprised him and only increased his curiosity. She had come so very close to accusing him of being a liar (however unintentionally). She must have truly been nervous about his answer if she'd let her armour of courtesy drop so carelessly.

"Always." He said softly.

She took a deep breath. His heart pounded unnervingly loudly in the absolute silence that lingered between them before she let it out.

"Did you…" She paused momentarily, then took another breath and continued. "When you asked my father to take me with him to the capital, was it just because of…the prophecy?"

He hadn't missed the pause she'd made before uttering the last word nor the hesitation in her voice, as if by saying what was on her mind out loud, she would make it real. She was scared and her fear ran deep – of the inevitability of the prophecy, of his answer.

His _honest_ answer – because that was what he had promised her.

Hadn't he sworn to himself he wouldn't repeat his father's mistake with a woman who bore the name Lannister? That he wanted nothing from her but the three heads of the dragon?

Hadn't he vowed he would do whatever had to be done in order to emerge victorious in the end? Even if it meant breaking every other vow he'd ever sworn?

"I admit it intrigues me." He nodded, choosing his words carefully. "I have never met anyone who'd had their future foretold to them."

It was the truth; all the prophecies he'd come across were either written down in dusty books by some king or maester of old or in letters from Aemon Targaryen. His visions were also prophecies of sorts, but he wasn't ready to reveal their existence to her just yet. They were still strangers.

She breathed in deeply, but said nothing. He imagined he hadn't exactly eased her worries, but she dared not voice her objection. She was probably aware had nearly overstepped the boundaries of propriety with her last words.

"Does my interest in it bother you?" He asked, even though he could guess her answer.

"No." Her denial came slightly too swiftly to be utterly convincing. "I just…I thought you would…speak with me about… _it_ again."

"I've wanted to, my lady." She couldn't even imagine the strength of his desire and the frustration at being unable to indulge it. "But we cannot be seen together."

She sucked in air sharply, once again wounded by his thoughtless words.

"Why not?" She asked fiercely, defiantly, trying (and failing) to hide the distress his words had caused.

He felt pangs of remorse in his chest, jabbing at him like blades. It was an odd feeling, perhaps because he had never truly felt it before. Like all his ancestors, he had been brought up believing princes (especially those who would inherit the throne) didn't regret or apologize for any of their actions or words. Even the most vicious of Targaryens wrapped themselves in that belief, wearing it like armour. Had any of them ever felt guilty, like he was feeling now? Had they felt like a crucial part of them was being uprooted from the very core of their being?

"It has nothing to do with you, my lady." He reached into the dark, hoping to soothe her with a touch, but couldn't find her hand.

He swallowed saliva nervously when she didn't answer.

"My lady?" He leaned forward, but couldn't see her or touch her, as if she had vanished into thin air. He sighed helplessly and whispered: "Cersei?"

The sound of her name snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Why then?" Her voice was quivering.

He shouldn't drag her into court intrigues before she even set foot into King's Landing. She was still so young, still a child.

She was also Tywin Lannister's child. She would soon be drowning in schemes. Rather than pushing her onto the shore, he should teach her how to swim those dangerous waters. King's Landing didn't forgive ignorance or inexperience.

"I am the Crown prince, you are the Hand's daughter." He said sombrely. "There are people who would view any kind of connection between us as sinister and dangerous to them."

 _Were we betrothed, it would be a different story entirely._ A month earlier, had anyone asked for his opinion on the prospect of being betrothed (and eventually married) to Cersei Lannister, he probably wouldn't have regarded it as a more satisfying match than any other. Since his sixteenth name-day, every young woman of noble birth on both sides of the Narrow Sea was viewed as his potential bride and Lady Lannister was no exception. He _had_ reflected on the possibility of her becoming his wife; after all, she was the Hand's daughter. Their betrothal would have been the most logical outcome, if not for his father's determination to humiliate his Hand. _I would have more time to gain her trust and she mine and together we could find a way to defeat the darkness._

"My father is one of them." He confessed openly; she needed to know where the greatest danger lay. "He currently believes the only reason you have come with us is because your father wants to make you queen. I would like to keep it that way."

Rhaegar was by no means unaware that was indeed one of Tywin Lannister's ambitions; the Hand had seemed beyond pleased when the prince had asked him to bring his daughter with them. Still, despite his desire to make House Lannister the most powerful House in Westeros, there was no denying the Realm had prospered greatly under Tywin's rule. Pragmatic and cunning as he was, he would be the perfect commander to lead the army of the living to the battle against the dead, if he could only be convinced of their existence. Unfortunately, he was a kind of man that didn't believe in anything he couldn't see or touch. It was the reason why Rhaegar had never tried to reason with him concerning the upcoming war; most likely, the only thing that would have achieved was that Tywin would come to think him as…unreasonable as his father.

( _He couldn't bring himself to use the word 'mad', even though many had begun to prefer that term. Aerys was still his father; he didn't lose hope he would once again become the man he'd known as a child, who'd always found the time to play with him and tell him stories of glorious days of the past._ )

For now, the only help he could count on from the Hand was to (unknowingly) take the blame for every move the prince made that roused Aerys' suspicion.

"If he – or anyone – learned of my involvement," He held his breath, trying to find a more delicate way to say what had to be said, but finding none, "I fear you and I both would find ourselves in danger, my lady."

He listened to her breathing in and out, taking in his words.

"Does he think I wouldn't make a good queen?" She said at last, her voice calmer than before, but still not quite even. "Or you a good king?"

Once again, he was taken aback by her way of thinking. She didn't know his father as well as he did, but that enabled her to provide an angle he had never considered. This was what he needed, a partner who would challenge his opinions, who would point out other possible (however unlikely) interpretations of prophecies.

"I hope I haven't disappointed him so much, as both son and prince." He didn't want to share his genuine opinion on this matter; that Aerys' fear of Rhaegar being on the throne had less to do with his disapproval of his son as a king and more with his desire to remain there himself. "Still, whatever his reasons for mistrusting me are, it doesn't change the fact you and I cannot be seen together."

She sighed in what sounded very much like frustration.

"If we'd been betrothed…" She began and then paused abruptly, as if embarrassed by the words she had rashly let roll off her tongue.

It didn't surprise him, though, that she was aware of the possibility, even relished in it. What woman didn't dream of being queen?

( _Probably only those who had to bear that burden on their shoulders, like Mother._ )

"Yes, that thought crossed my mind as well." He said calmly, his tone suggesting he didn't hold her slip against her. "But there is no use in dwelling on it. We aren't betrothed, so we'll have to find another way to communicate without drawing unwanted attention."

"Like this? By night?"

He nodded. "It is a possibility."

"But what will happen when you marry?" He couldn't be sure, but he thought he'd caught the tinniest note of anger in her tone, as if the mere thought offended her. "When some young, beautiful queen comes and…" In her distress, she couldn't even bring herself to finish the sentence.

Her reaction shouldn't have surprised him. She was her father's daughter after all, unwilling let anyone take what she believed was meant for her.

"Queens must be more than just beautiful." He pointed out, both as comfort and as a warning.

"They must give birth to heirs, like all other wives." She hissed bitterly, as if she'd lost control over herself for a moment. "My father says that will be my duty once I marry." _My only duty._

He wouldn't argue with her on that, given that he needed the three heirs she was expected to birth, but history had proven there was much more to the role of the queen.

"Rhaenys and Visenya, or Good Queen Alysanne," He named the most famous examples, "They ruled the Realm as much as their brother-husbands."

A few moments passed in thoughtful silence.

"I would like to be like Visenya." She said longingly. His words seemed to have raised her spirits. "A warrior and a lady."

"If you are willing to learn, I can teach you."

Judging by her rapid breathing, she was as amazed by his offer as he'd been mere moments earlier when she had expressed her wish. He couldn't believe his own luck; she _wanted_ to be what he would likely need her to be. He couldn't revive the real Visenya, but he could try to make sure she had a worthy replacement on the battlefield.

"My father would never allow…"

"I'm not asking your father, I'm asking _you_."

She was once again stunned into silence, but he could tell his interruption hadn't offended her – far from it.

"Yes." She whispered eagerly. "I want to learn."

For a moment, he thought he could see her eyes sparking in the dark. He felt his lips shaping a smile.

"We'll have to find a place where we can practice in secret." He struggled to keep whispering, barely containing his own enthusiasm. He still needed to leave her tent undiscovered. "When I find it, I will send for you. Ser Arthur will help us. There's no finer swordsman or a more loyal man in the Realm."

She let out a discreet squeak of sheer delight; he couldn't find it in himself to warn her to be more careful.

"I'm looking forward to it."

Surprisingly enough, so was he.

He stood up and bowed in her direction. This conversation had turned out more fruitful than he had dared hope for, but it was best not to challenge the gods. It was time for him to leave.

"Goodnight, my lady." He whispered softly.

He heard her rise to her feet too; she was still a lady, despite meeting a man she wasn't betrothed to in the dead of the night.

"Goodnight, my prince." He couldn't see the smile on her face, but he could hear it in her voice.

It took a slap from a gust of wind for him to realize he was beaming at the stars above his head after he'd left her tent. He could almost imagine he was seeing countless dragons instead, that he was watching the great tourney held for the fiftieth anniversary of Jaehaerys I.'s reign through the eyes of the Old King himself.

It was only later, in that split of a second between dream and awake, that he realized that the unconscious part of his mind had referred to Cersei Lannister as his Alysanne.


	3. III

Cersei's only memories of her first visit to the capital were few and unclear, more snippets than memories. A grand vast hall, larger than even the Great Hall in Casterly Rock, with a throne made of swords towering above all. Empty eye sockets of long dead beasts watching her from above as if they were yearning for a taste of her blood. The feeling of Mother's hand around hers, her gentle, but firm voice warning her and Jaime to be on their best behaviour when they were presented to the king. She remembered the feelings more than the place itself; the fascination, the nervousness, even fear. She had felt so small and insignificant.

But as the carriage slowly rolled down a hill and she watched the city spread before her, the dark memories were drowned in a golden pool of thrill.

King's Landing was absolutely breathtaking. In the distance, she could see the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's Hill and the palace on Aegon's Hill, seemingly as estranged as the famous conquerors were rumoured to have been. While the seven towers of the marble domed Sept reflected sunrays as if in defiance, the Red Keep seemed to absorb them, the colour of its walls shimmering from white, to cinnabar, to scarlet, to crimson. The sight made Cersei's eyes itch and her head ache, but she couldn't separate her eyes from it. While her home stood proudly, its firm posture demanding compliance of the Westerlands, the Red Keep towered over King's Landing almost leisurely, as if having forgotten what it was like to have its hold on the capital challenged.

Finally defeated by the blinding light, Cersei's eyes snapped shut. When she opened them again, her gaze landed on her father and the man riding next to him. The king and the Hand rode in silence, reminiscent of the moon and the sun competing for dominion over the sky. During the journey, she had noticed attempts of the silver moon (some subtle, some less so) to undermine its opponent, presenting itself as its better. But everyone knew it was the golden sun that was crucial for the Realm's survival. Though everyone laughed at the moon's jests, rare laughs were genuine. Tywin Lannister wasn't the Laughing Lion – it was a lesson Westeros had learned and the Reynes and the Tarbecks had never been given a chance to forget.

( _Lannisters always pay their debts._ )

Her gaze landed on Rhaegar next. He rode on his father's other side, unaware of her longing gaze on his back. He hadn't spoken to her since his visit in the middle of the night, but his silence was differently interpreted east of Harrenhal. She kept his promise to herself like he had asked, as if it were a precious necklace locked inside a jewellery box. One day, she would be able to bring that token of his affection into the light and wear it proudly, for the entire world to see. She just had to be patient.

Soon enough, the party approached the city gates. The horses barely slowed down as they passed through them like a river that barely fit its course. As the carriage crossed the boundaries of the capital, Cersei's heart started beating faster.

Inside the city, the stone streets were filled with people cheering and waving at the king and his party. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders, trying to get a better view; dozens of people were peeking through windows of nearby buildings. Men and women, young and old, all smiled widely, some with tears in their eyes, as if the nobles passing by were their own long lost family. She spotted a few of them pointing enthusiastically at her carriage; she put her hands on her lap to stop them from shaking in excitement.

 _They are celebrating the arrival of their future queen._

( _As they ought to._ )

Sounds of cheering and applause came to an abrupt end when guards closed the gates that separated the Red Keep from the rest of the city. The party found itself in an inner yard where another (much smaller) group was waiting for them.

Cersei could only guess identities of two persons in it. The thin, lithe woman with long white hair could be no-one but Prince Rhaegar's mother, Queen Rhaella, and the silver-haired babe that lay asleep in her arms (why was _she_ carrying him instead of one of the maids that were standing nearby?) was Rhaegar's younger brother, Prince Viserys.

( _Could he be––Don't be ridiculous. He's just a…_ )

"What are you doing?" Cersei's startled heart leapt into her throat.

She shivered when a sudden crack of a whip followed the king's threatening roar. She glanced outside tentatively and saw he had climbed off his horse, but he hadn't left the whip behind. He approached the queen and snatched the prince from her arms so violently the babe woke up and started crying.

"You stupid woman!" Cersei nearly choked on the air she had just inhaled; in his attempt to grasp the whip properly, the king nearly dropped his son.

The queen's eyes widened in alarm, but she made no move to take the child back.

( _Why doesn't she_ _ **do**_ _something? She is his mother!_ )

"I assumed…" She began, but the king interrupted her – with another slash of whip that landed unnervingly close to her feet.

Cersei held her breath. Blood was pulsing against her temples, threating to erupt from her veins like lava that had sunk Old Valyria.

"You aren't to assume _anything_." The king snarled menacingly, spiting words and saliva into the queen's rigid face. "The next time you endanger my son's life, you might lose your own."

Cersei couldn't fathom what danger the king thought lurked in a sunny day on the castle's grounds. With his mother and a dozen of guards and maids around him, Prince Viserys had been perfectly safe. How had the queen endangered his life?

Queen Rhaella's face was as if embossed in stone, giving away no emotion that might further provoke King Aerys' wrath. In Cersei's opinion, she had taken the threat to her life with unnatural calmness. _Almost as if she was used to it._ She bowed her head, her eyes ceasing to meet her husband's.

But she never apologized.

( _Not Daena the Defiant, but not her spineless sister Rhaena either._ )

The king didn't seem to notice – or care. He didn't spare so much as a glance at anyone as he marched into the castle as if in a great hurry with the still weeping babe in his arms. It was only when he was out of sight and earshot that the rest of the party dared move a single muscle. Cersei's eyes looked first for Rhaegar, but the prince had his back turned to her. Then her gaze clashed with her father's; with a quick nod, he gestured to her to join him.

She picked up her skirts and stepped out of the carriage into the welcoming embrace of a warm breeze which felt pleasant against her bare shoulders and neck. She wasn't wearing the crimson of her House today; instead, the long-sleeved gown was the colour of emeralds, matching her eyes. She walked over with poise of a queen; even the ever cautious prince cast a glance at her as she passed by, she noticed with the briefest curl of a lip.

( _As if he couldn't resist the temptation._ )

"My Lord Hand."

The sound of Queen Rhaella's voice took Cersei by surprise. The white-haired woman was approaching them gracefully, her expression still as dispassionate as it had been when the king had slandered her.

"Your Grace." Father bowed his head reverently before her, his conduct giving no indication that he had even witnessed the incident with King Aerys.

It took all of Cersei's self-restraint to prevent astonishment from showing on her face. There was no rational explanation for her shock; Rhaella Targaryen _was_ Queen. Her title demanded respect, even from the Hand. Still, Cersei had _never_ seen Father show respect to any woman (that wasn't Mother). If she hadn't witnessed it with her own eyes, against all reason and etiquette, she would have found it unbelievable that he would bow before any woman, even a queen.

"This must be your daughter." Queen Rhaella's violet eyes (darker than Rhaegar's) turned to her. "Cersei, is that right?"

Casting her eyes down, Cersei wrapped her shaking hands into the skirts of her dress and curtsied. While she had remembered King Aerys when she'd first seen him in Casterly Rock, she had no recollection of the queen's face or voice. She swallowed saliva nervously; if the queen asked her anything about her first visit to King's Landing, she would have no choice but to lie. Queen Rhaella would hardly be pleased if she learned she'd had no place in Cersei's memories.

"Yes, Your Grace." She said softly, but with steel. _A lion shows no fear._ "I hope you and Prince Viserys are in good health."

"We are." The queen said, her voice rid of any emotion. "And your twin – Jaime? I remember you two being absolutely inseparable."

 _Yet you are here and he is not._

Having been caught off her guard, Cersei's first instinct was to look to her father for guidance, but she caught herself in time. Father wouldn't help her – not out of malice, but out of disappointment, and to disappoint Tywin Lannister was an unwise mistake. She forced herself to take a deep breath, gathering her wits.

"We are not anymore." She shrugged her shoulders, struggling to keep her voice steady. She hadn't known talking of Jaime would be so difficult.

 _He stayed in Casterly Rock and I'm here. We are separated by whole kingdoms._

( _We should be together, as we always were. He should be here with me._ )

"As I understand, you've come to serve as the Hand's cupbearer."

Cersei raised her eyes to the queen's. Green met violet; neither looked away.

"Yes." She lowered herself even further down into a curtsy, but without breaking eye-contact. "And to serve the royal family, in any way I can."

 _I will not serve you, not forever._ She vowed, willing her stare to remain piercing and unyielding. _Your son wants me here, by his side. He will make me his Queen, his Visenya. Someday, I will be in_ _ **your**_ _place. But_ _ **my**_ _husband will not disrespect_ _ **me**_ _._

The queen's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if she could trace the course of Cersei's thoughts, but before she had a chance to answer, they were joined by none other than Prince Rhaegar.

"Mother." He placed a gentle kiss on the queen's cheek, ignoring both Cersei and her father.

Despite the innocence of the exchange, a flame of jealousy was ignited in Cersei's chest. It just wasn't _fair_ that he could openly display his affections towards everyone but her. Why did love meant for her always have to be kept secret? Why couldn't people love her – and she them – in broad daylight? Why did she always have to conceal her love beneath a cloak of shadows, like a thief hiding precious possessions?

"Rhaegar." Her features and voice softened, Queen Rhaella placed a hand on her son's cheek, then removed a mischievous lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

It was a nearly comical sight, given that the prince was a man grown and half a head taller than his mother. However, Rhaegar didn't seem embarrassed or angry with the queen for her act of tenderness. He bore it with impeccable graciousness that Cersei couldn't help but admire and even envy. He leaned forward and whispered something she didn't catch into his mother's ear, then kissed the queen's hand and headed for the castle. With every step, he was stamping over Cersei's hopes that he would at least glance at her over his shoulders. She understood why he couldn't, but she nonetheless wished he would.

"I would like you to dine with me tomorrow."

Cersei tore her eyes from the prince; when she turned around, she noticed the queen's gaze was resting on her. The request had taken her by surprise, but she knew better than to show it.

"If it pleases Your Grace, I would be honoured." She curtsied again, this time looking at the queen through her eyelashes rather than directly.

"I will see you tomorrow at sundown then." The queen turned on her heel and strode down the same path as her husband and son before her, through the mouth into the belly of the beast.

Cersei stared after her as if under a spell ( _A dinner with the queen – with Rhaegar's mother. In private. Will the prince join them as well? What should she wear?_ ), until Father spoke again, snapping her out of her musings.

"You will go to the Tower of the Hand and settle in."

She turned to him, noticing two guards in Lannister colours approaching them. Father's expression was unreadable; there was no way of telling whether he approved of her behaviour and choice of words. He wasn't frowning in displeasure; she took that as an encouraging sign.

"I will see you at dinner." He said dismissively, gesturing to her to follow the guards.

Despite his orders, she lingered for a few moments longer, knowing the guards wouldn't dare leave without her. She watched Father join five men who had been staring at them in anticipation from the other side of the yard. The moment they noticed him approaching, they all closed in on him like kittens on their mother, bowing their heads respectfully to the Hand. The scene made Cersei's heart swell with pride; she couldn't chase it away from her mind long after it had left her sight.

( _One day, they would all bow down before a different Lannister. Before the queen. Before_ _ **me**_ _._ )

* * *

"There is about to be a vote on a law you want to pass. One nobleman's word will decide the vote."

Startled into awareness by a sudden interruption of perfectly pleasant silence, Cersei separated her eyes from the food on her plate and looked at Father with raised eyebrows. It was completely unlike him to speak during a meal, of political matters (to her at least) even more so.

It was also strange that they were now alone in the vast dining room in the Tower of the Hand. None of the servants who had brought them food and were supposed to be waiting for further orders were anywhere to be seen. Father must have sent them away when she hadn't been looking – but why would have he done that?

"In return for his support," He continued evenly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, "He demands a considerable amount of gold, land and a wife of noble birth. Which do you provide?"

Cersei blinked in confusion, trying to force her absent mind to think on the matter. It stubbornly refused to cooperate; in all truth, she was exhausted. The excitement she had felt upon their arrival to the capital had worn off long ago, somewhere around the time when she had taken upon herself to write a letter to Jaime (the task had taken her a larger part of the afternoon – in the end, the letter had turned out short and full of meaningless phrases). Now, surrounded by numerous candles whose flickering flames were illuminating the room and the unyielding heat of the air in the capital, she was barely keeping her eyes open. She just wanted this day to finally end.

What she most certainly did _not_ want was to guess which answer Father wanted to hear. That was not how she had envisioned her evening.

He stared at her patiently, as if he could wait for her response until dawn. Still, she knew that if there was an answer that was definitely wrong, it was silence.

"All three?" Despite her efforts to seem sure of her answer, uncertainty sneaked into her voice.

Father took a gulp of wine, then fiddled with the goblet for a few moments, almost absently. Cersei struggled to keep breathing; she only took a breath when on the brink of choking. His secretive silence was unnerving, even more than his unconcealed displeasure. It was keeping her on the edge of her seat, ready to take flight in a heartbeat (even though there was nowhere she could run to).

( _Because Jaime wasn't there._ )

"There are two pieces of land you can give; a larger piece south of your seat of power and on the border of the land that belongs to a rival of yours or a smaller piece north of your seat." He said, without remarking on whether her answer was correct. "Which one do you offer?"

"The smaller piece." She answered promptly, without taking a moment to think. That answer was obvious. If the supposed noble would also be given gold and a wife, why should he get a larger piece of land as well?

Silence lingered briefly between them this time.

"There are two daughters of another nobleman – with no sons – you can offer to the man you wish to support you." His solemn expression still prevented her from guessing whether he was satisfied with her previous replies. "The older one was married, and she has a daughter with her first husband, who'd recently died of fever. The younger daughter hasn't been married. Which one do you propose as a wife?"

Cersei let her eyes wander away from her father as she thought her answer over. Staring at the golden plate in front of her, she saw her twisted reflection frowning back at her. Her nose looked so large and her eyes so small; she looked nearly as ugly as…

"Well?"

 _Think._ She ordered herself, tearing her eyes away from her reflection. _The younger one is untouched – along with beauty, it's the only thing a man wants in a wife. Why would the nobleman want the older one? She's_ _ **older**_ _, and has a child with another man; it doesn't matter that he's dead. Offering the older daughter would offend him and rob me of his support._

"The younger one." She said firmly, looking at Father.

His eyes narrowed at her.

"No."

The eerie calmness of his voice sent shivers down her spine.

"The older daughter has already given birth." He started explaining evenly, as if reciting prayers. "Therefore, it can be assumed she can bear an heir to the nobleman. If she births a son, he will inherit both his and her father's land. No nobleman would decline such an offer."

His explanation made sense, she had to admit, but…

"But what if…"

"It's a risk any ambitious nobleman would be willing to take." He cut her off unflappably. "Heirs are more important than wives."

 _Is that how you felt about Mother too?_ Cersei bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from retorting. Father's insistence on downplaying the role of women in the world infuriated her; if she didn't want to become Queen so badly herself, she would run away in the middle of the night, relishing in the knowledge she had deprived him of the chance to see someone of Lannister blood on the Iron Throne. _You couldn't have Jaime marry the prince, could you?_

"As for land, you will offer the larger piece." He continued in all-knowing manner; if her fury was showing on her face, he pretended not to notice. "In case of war, you must never be caught between an enemy and a potential enemy."

Part of her anger with him was swiftly redirected – at herself. The right choice was evident in this case as well now that he had clarified why. Why hadn't _she_ seen it as clearly as he did? She was the smartest of her siblings; she shouldn't have needed Father to tell her the right answer.

 _I'm tired. If I was well-rested, I would have been able to think clearly._

"And last, you never provide all that's asked of you." He stood up from the table; towering above her, he seemed as imposing and as frightening like a giant from stories and myths. "Give them what they want if it suits you, but they must always think that, in time, you could give them even more."

There was finality to his voice; he was done with dinner, with lecturing and with her. He turned his back on her and headed for his chambers, leaving her to stare after him, contemplating his words. His posture was as stiff and proud as always, as if he felt no actual need for sleep. Did he ever get tired, she wondered. Of bearing the king's mockery? Of ruling? Of fighting off foes who would see him fall?

"Aren't _everyone_ potential enemies?" Her own voice took her aback.

But not _him_. Their eyes met again; even though they were separated by a whole room, she felt as though his gaze was burning into hers, not allowing her to look away.

"Keep observing," Was all he said.

It was long after he had disappeared from her sight, after a relentless, tiresome dance of thoughts and reflections, that she finally thought she understood the meaning of his words. Icy shivers spread over her skin; she regretted asking.

 _It's the closest thing to a friend you can have._

( _In the world full of valonqars._ )

* * *

"Here comes Tyrion the Lion-rider! Arrr! Arrr!"

"Faster!" Tyrion ordered, raising his wooden sword like a commander leading his troupes into battle.

His brother dashed forward on his knees and elbows, roaring at the top of his lungs. Seated on his back, Tyrion grabbed the back of Jaime's shirt to keep himself upright. Heels of his legs kicked at Jaime's sides like he'd seen his brother do when riding a horse (even though Jaime wasn't a horse, Tyrion was still a rider). With his golden mane and strong back, Jaime was a magnificent, if a bit slow lion. If only he could move around a bit faster, then the game would be more fun.

"Faster, Jaime!" Tyrion shouted in excitement, pulling at Jaime's shirt as though it were reins. "We're too slow!"

Animals couldn't speak, but Jaime was a smart lion, smarter than any other.

"Hold on then!" He yelled back.

Tyrion barely had enough time to wrap his arms around Jaime's neck before the lion rose to his back feet and started running around Tyrion's chamber, still roaring so loudly the whole castle must have heard him.

"Chaaarge!" His heart thundering exhilaratingly, the Lion-rider separated his sword arm from his mount's neck.

His blade hit the left enemy and then the right (they both came in the form of front posts of Tyrion's canopy bed) with loud smacks.

"Victory!" He cried at the top of his voice. "Victory!"

Jaime let out a triumphant: "Arrr!"

A sudden knock on the door pierced through their fantasy. Still holding the wooden sword, Tyrion reached for Jaime's neck, struggling to keep his balance as Jaime turned to face the door. With his chest pressed against Jaime's back, he could feel his brother breathe in slowly and deeply. His heart leapt in excitement; would Jaime bare his teeth and roar at the intruder?

"Enter." His brother called out breathlessly, to Tyrion's disappointment. Nobody would dare interrupt them in their game if Jaime continued to pretend he was a real lion.

It was Maester Gallyn – a thin grey-haired man with silver eyes and a large birthmark on his left temple who had been serving House Lannister for more than a decade. He was dressed in his usual simple brown robes, with a chain around his neck which, in Tyrion's opinion, looked like a funny necklace. Despite that detail of his appearance, Maester Gallyn was the most serious person Tyrion had ever seen. He never smiled or even frowned. In some ways, he was scarier than Father.

"Young lords." He said with his head bowed. His voice was hoarse, as if he didn't use it much; Tyrion had certainly never heard him raise it.

"What is it?" Jaime asked with the tiniest note of boredom in his voice.

"A raven has arrived." The maester replied, stretching out a hand that held a piece of paper towards them. "From King's Landing."

"It's from Cersei!" Tyrion yelled, kicking Jaime's sides with his feet make him move. "I wanna see!"

Despite his persistent kicks, Jaime didn't move. His brother stood absolutely motionless; it seemed he had even ceased to breathe.

"Jaime!" Tyrion shouted impatiently into his brother's ear, making him flinch. Now that he was certain he had Jaime's attention, he pointed at the letter in Maester Gallyn's hand with the tip of his sword. "I wanna see!"

"Well, I don't."

Jaime's voice had lost every trace of playfulness. He crouched and released Tyrion's legs from his hold. Then he removed Tyrion's arms from his neck and stood up again.

"You can't go!" Tyrion jumped as high as he could, trying to grab his brother's hand. Despite his efforts, it remained out of reach, so he settled for Jaime's breeches. "I wanna see what Cersei says and I wanna play more!"

"We'll play more later." Jaime tore his clothes from Tyrion's grasp with unusual harshness, then marched away from his little brother without even looking at him. "I need to go…practice swordplay."

Tyrion's lips began to quiver as he watched his brother rush past the maester and the letter in his hand as though the man was holding a snake. He couldn't understand what had happened. He had thought Jaime would be as happy as he was to receive a letter from Cersei. Why had his brother got so angry? Why had his voice become so stern and cold?

"What should I do with the letter, young lord?"

Tyrion looked at the maester in surprise. He wasn't used to people asking _him_ what should be done; the unfamiliar situation made him nervous. However, it didn't make him nearly as anxious as the mayhap ungracious idea that had crossed his mind. He didn't want to do it without Jaime or his knowledge and approval (or spend as much time in Maester Gallyn's company as it would be required for his idea to come to fruition), but he really, _really_ wanted to know what was written in that letter.

He swallowed down saliva and with it his fear. He was a Lannister of the Rock, a lion as brave as his father and siblings. As for Jaime, his brother would surely come to his senses soon. While he waited for that to come to pass, why shouldn't Tyrion learn how to find his way among (Cersei's) written words on his own?

"I'll take it." He said, walking slowly over to the maester.

His hand looked so small next to Maester Gallyn's; if the man refused to hand the letter over, he wouldn't be able to take it from him by force. Luckily, the maester showed no signs of wanting to keep the precious paper to himself; the letter soon lay on Tyrion's palm, scenting of raspberries.

Cersei liked raspberries.

"Is there anything else you require, young lord?" Maester Gallyn asked. His voice was close to whispering, as if they were sharing a secret.

In a way, they were.

"Yes." Tyrion nodded. He didn't know where to hide the letter, so he clasped his hands behind his back. The maester didn't need to know the real motive behind his request. "I want to learn to read."

 **And that was chapter 3. I hope you liked it.**

 **Thank you all for your reviews, faves and follows and most of all, for your patience. I know I'm a bit slow on updates, but I want to polish every detail in this story and checking every word three times takes time. However, I've still probably missed a grammar or a spelling mistake (or a few), so I apologize for that (and for the fact I don't know how to translate the sound of a ten-year-old imitating a lion's roar into a written word - I tried my best, I swear).**


	4. IV

**I admit I might have made a mistake when I put that part with Jaime and Tyrion in the last chapter, because I suppose it takes a bit longer for a raven to fly from King's Landing to Casterly Rock than one day (to be honest, I haven't got a clue how much time it takes for that journey by any means of transportation), but I really, _really_ wanted it to be there, so I'd be lying if I said I was sorry. In case it might cause a bit of confusion, this chapter is happening the day after Cersei arrived to King's Landing. Just so you know.  
**

 **Virtual cookies to everyone who spot a Lord of the Rings reference :)**

In contrast to her nervous heartbeat that pounded loudly in her ears, Cersei walked soundlessly after her father through corridors that led from their lodgings in the Tower of the Hand to the room where the Small council meeting was to take place. Father not once turned to check whether she was still following him. She nearly had to run to keep up with his pace, but she refused to ask him to slow down, biting her lip just in case. He wouldn't hear her complain, not on the first day.

When they finally reached their destination, they were greeted by the sight of five men standing up from the long wooden table they'd been sitting at and bowing their heads in their direction. She knew their names and offices; Father had insisted she memorized them this morning as they had been breaking their fast. He gestured to her to stand into a corner behind two chairs that weren't taken, close to another, smaller table with two jugs on it. When she turned to gaze at the room again, he was already seated, next to the only remaining empty chair at the head of the table.

Cersei waited for his signal, but it never came. Nobody managed to utter a single word, for the door swung open again, the sudden gust blowing breath away from everyone's lips. Cersei swallowed hard at the sight of the newcomer, instantly lowering herself down into a curtsy. After yesterday's incident, she had no desire to be anywhere near the king or to accidentally draw his attention to herself.

"Your Grace." Wood creaked against stone as the six men rose to their feet swiftly as if they had been sitting on embers.

King Aerys' steps echoed the silent room as he made his way to his seat. When they ceased, Cersei dared raise her gaze, certain the danger (at least for her) had passed.

A heartbeat earlier, she somehow knew what was coming. Her breath caught. Her eyes met the king's.

"Come here, girl." He commanded, staring at her fixedly.

Under any other circumstances, she wouldn't hesitate to let her fury at having been addressed like a common servant girl be known. There and then, she kept her mouth shut and her expression neutral. She obeyed his command in perfect silence, keeping her eyes on the king, daring not to steal even a glance at Father.

"You forgot the wine." The king's eyes sparked mockingly. "You're not going to be of much use as a cupbearer empty-handed, are you?"

Cursing herself silently for her mistake, Cersei made as if to turn around, but his voice made her freeze in her movements.

"You never turn your back on your king, girl."

The threating note in his voice wrapped around her throat like a pair of hands and squeezed, leaving her breathless. She turned to him with her head bowed and strode backwards until her back bumped against the table. Her hands roamed the surface behind her back until they found one of the jugs, nearly knocking it over in the process. She took the jug into her shaking hands and pressed it against her front, before gliding to the table without a sound, as inconspicuous as a ghost of the past.

(Only this ghost was actually real and visible to everyone in the room.)

"Pour." The king raised his goblet towards her.

The jug was heavy as she lifted it to pour the crimson liquid into his goblet, but she forced herself to remain utterly still. She counted her breaths – or her heartbeats, she wasn't sure – feeling eyes boring into her, waiting for a mistake, for a proof that Lannisters weren't impeccable, that _she_ was flawed, even if her father wasn't.

The king's goblet was nearly full. She stopped pouring and turned to her father. He shot the briefest glance at his own goblet that stood on the table before his eyes returned to hers. Feeling his gaze on her face, she filled the goblet almost to the top and then started to withdraw soundlessly from the table, the weight of the jug and the pressure in her mind slightly relieved.

"I haven't given you permission to leave."

She froze where she stood. Her hands and the jug in it trembled in the rhythm with her frantic heartbeat.

"Come here." With a wave of hand, King Aerys gestured to her to return to the empty space between himself and her father.

She had no idea how she had made her paralyzed legs move when her lungs barely seemed capable of taking breath. All she knew was that she was moving forward when her every instinct screamed at her to turn on her heel and run in the opposite direction. All too soon, she found herself at the spot the king had intended for her, her throat burning with breath she didn't dare let out.

Her arm jerked instinctively when his fingers wrapped around her wrist. His grip tightened to the point of pain; she turned to glare at him without meaning to, in shock and indignation equally.

"You better learn your place here quickly, _girl_." He snarled contemptuously, his nails scratching the soft skin on her wrist nearly to the point of bleeding. She couldn't find it in herself to be angry any longer; now her heart was thundering with pure terror. "You are _a servant_ and I will not tolerate your insolence."

He dropped her hand with so much force she nearly stumbled. Then he pressed the goblet against his lips and dried it in a few gulps, to the last drop.

"Pour more." Metal thudded against wood as the goblet landed forcefully on the table.

She did, without any objection or hesitation. As terrified as she was, it was a miracle she didn't spill a single drop.

"Now leave." He said when she was done, his lip curled menacingly. "This is no place for little girls."

Tears of humiliation formed in the corners of her eyes, but she blinked fiercely, refusing to let them fall. Not there. Not in front of him.

( _Bow down. Breathe. Walk away._ _ **Breathe.**_ )

Her legs carried her through stone corridors, past walls, doors and people, past eyes and voices. The world became unclear beyond the veil of tears and the noise her heartbeat made masked all other sounds. She just wanted to hide somewhere away from the world, somewhere nobody could see scars of shame reflected in her eyes.

 _He called me_ _ **a servant**_ _. Me – a Lannister._ _ **Me**_ _._

Voices grew distant until they faded into silence. She kept pressing forward, as if possessed, until her path was blocked by a doubled door. She curled her fingers around the cold metal of doorknobs and pressed down fiercely, wishing they would break, imagining she was holding the king by the shoulders, imagining him fall, break, _die_ …

When she raised her eyes again, she found herself facing creatures that had used to haunt her nightmares.

( _Not anymore._ )

Gritting her teeth, she marched through the empty throne room, keeping her eyes on the high seat it was named for. When she ascended the stairs, she turned on her heel with her skirts floating about her and seated herself on the throne made of swords of those who had refused to bend the knee. Her lips curled into a proud grin as she surveyed her surroundings, she above all, a goddess out of reach of men.

 _Queen you shall be._ Whatever came later, this part _would_ come true, that she swore. _I'm a Lannister. I'm nobody's servant._

Absently, she leaned her forearms on armrests only to wince when she felt sharp pain piercing her right palm. When she raised her hand, blood was trickling down flushed flesh, painting the metal beneath red.

Suddenly, hairs rose on the back of her neck. She was being watched.

However, there was nobody in the room but her – and the dragons.

She clenched her fist slowly, gasping when nails ran into the wound, but letting out no sound. She watched in fascination as the blood kept dripping from her hand onto the blades, marking the Iron throne – for her.

 _I'm not scared of you._ She raised her head and bared her teeth back at the skulls, glaring at them boldly. _Dragons bled and dragons died._

She hadn't even realized she had moved until she saw her own blood-stained hand reach towards one of the skulls, the one that seemed to watch her with most defiance. It wasn't even the largest skull in the room (she could easily tell the skull of the Black Dread from others), but there was something… _challenging_ in the darkness of those empty eyes, as though they were daring her to prove her courage. Her heart indeed trembled for a moment, as did her hand, but then a lioness within roared and she laid her hand on the skull, feeling the blood spread beneath her palm where skin and bone touched.

This time when the pain surged, she did scream. It felt as if she was being skinned alive, only the layers that were pilled off first were the ones that lay the deepest within her, the invisible blade cutting through both flesh and thought with unnatural ease.

A heartbeat later it was over, as if it had never happened.

She would have thought she had imagined it all, was it not for the smell of burned flesh in the air around her and the cauterized wound on her hand. The blood was dry on her skin, copper rather than crimson, as if it had been there for hours, not mere moments. She looked at the skull uncertainly, searching for an explanation, but was denied as it remained silent and motionless.

Swallowing hard, she backed away, her knees suddenly feeling weak. Too many eyes, too many…of _them_. By the time she left the throne room, she was running as if every demon of Seven Hells was after her, her own heartbeat sounding like a monster's roar to her ears.

Dragons had bled, yes, but had they truly died as well?

* * *

"Your Grace, Lady Lannister is here."

Rhaella raised her head, separating her itching eyes from the book on her lap. Sleep had refused to come to her the previous night; she had lain awake for hours, staring into the darkness, seeing faces. Thinking of Viserys. Of Rhaegar. _Not_ thinking of her husband. Of Joanna.

Two people were standing at her door, white and crimson, silver and gold. Not an unfamiliar sight, though the performers were different.

Gods did love their little games, didn't they?

"Your Grace." Cersei Lannister murmured softly, nearly inaudibly. Long golden locks hid her face from Rhaella's sight, her head bowed low, almost like a condemned man in expectation of beheading.

It took a moment for Rhaella to reconcile the sight before her with Lady Lannister she had spoken to the day before. Gone was the excited smile, twin of Joanna's, and the bold gaze of Tywin's cold eyes. Gone was the pride of lions from her features, leaving only a kitten behind.

"Come in." The queen said, careful not to let her surprise show in either her face or voice. She had mastered the skill of concealing her true feelings long ago; being the wife of Aerys Targaryen required that particular ability to be polished to perfection.

As Cersei approached her, Rhaella's gaze came to rest on two guards in Lannister colours who had accompanied the girl to the queen's chambers. One was quite a few years older than Rhaella, grey and black intertwining in his hair and beard, the corners of his eyes and mouth filled with lines left by years that passed. The other man was of the same age as her eldest son or a bit older, less beautiful, less majestic, but also less sad.

(Or less sad than Rhaegar had been before his departure for Casterly Rock.)

"You may leave. There's no need for you to wait here." She told them, trying to sound kind. The older man opened his mouth to protest immediately, but she spoke again before he managed to voice his objection, this time remarkably more sternly. "Ser Arthur will escort Lady Lannister back to her chambers. Surely Lord Hand will agree his daughter's honour cannot be better protected."

After a moment of hesitation, the man swallowed his words and bowed his head.

"Your Grace."

Rhaella's eyes met Ser Arthur's. For a long moment, the queen and the knight stared at each other, their thoughts unsaid, but understood. She nodded briefly and the knight bowed, then withdrew back into the hallway in front of her chambers and closed the door, leaving her and her guest alone in the room.

"Please, sit." She gestured to Lady Lannister to join her at the table already filled with plates with food on them.

The girl did as was asked of her, seating herself on Rhaella's left, but still hadn't looked directly at the queen. She filled the empty plate in front of her with food, but judging by the way she slowly put grapes into her mouth, it seemed more like an attempt to busy her hands and excuse not to speak rather than a case of hunger needing to be quenched. Her silence and refusal to raise her eyes gave Rhaella a chance to study her closely, even if it tugged at memories she wanted to left buried, opened wounds that had never really truly healed.

 _So much of Tywin in her features, yet her mouth, lips and dimples, are Joanna's_.

(Words probably not – Tywin's influence was too strong and had lasted for too long without anything to counter it. Did the girl even remember Joanna?)

"How do you find King's Landing, Lady Lannister?" She asked conversationally, not taking her eyes off the face hidden behind golden locks.

Startled, Cersei flinched on her seat, as if she had forgotten where she was. Beneath her mask of amicability, Rhaella wondered at this unexpected reaction. A daughter of one of the most powerful Houses in Westeros simply wouldn't be so careless as to be caught absentminded while dining with the queen. Joanna had always been attentive when spoken to and it would be easier to kill a lion with one's bare hands than witness Tywin Lannister being inappropriately lost in his thoughts.

Rather than of any of her parents, Cersei's reaction reminded Rhaella…of Rhaegar.

Must the gods really be so cruel?

"It's…beautiful." The brief pause before the last word gave away the girl's uncertainty of her choice of words. "It's… much warmer than in the West."

It was strange, seeing her so reluctant to speak or even make an eye contact after she had been bristling with confidence the day before. As to what had caused such change, it wasn't a hard guess, if one trusted rumours born that day sometime before noon.

"I must admit I have never visited your home." Rhaella said, wanting to make the young lady feel more at ease. She had no intention of mentioning the events at the Small Council's meeting, not unless Cersei initiated the conversation on that subject. "I have been told it is captivating, a labyrinth of rocks that cannot be conquered."

"Yes." Cersei nodded, green eyes lighting up for a moment. "If Loren Lannister hadn't ridden out to meet Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes and their riders on the Fields of Fire, perhaps not even dragonflame would have driven him outside."

It was stated proudly, not arrogantly, and with clear admiration not only for her own ancestors, but for Rhaella's as well, and their mounts. The queen herself had often dreamt of being a dragonrider when she had been younger (and not only then), longing for distant places, for freedom she had never known.

( _For love she could give and receive freely._ )

She forced herself to snap out of those musings. They led nowhere but into the darkness.

"I know remains aren't as impressive as the real dragons," She took a gulp of wine in between words, "But perhaps you would like to see their skulls in the throne room?"

To her surprise, a sudden shadow of fear darkened the emerald eyes.

"Do you…" The girl swallowed nervously, but found the steel within to finish the sentence. "Do you know which skull belonged to which dragon? Your Grace?"

Strange words said in even stranger tone.

"You sound like you've already seen them." Rhaella observed, the unasked question lingering between them.

"I have." Cersei nodded hesitatingly. "When…when I first came to King's Landing."

It had slipped Rhaella's mind this wasn't Cersei's first visit to the capital. Everything had been so different back then; it might have all happened in another life.

"You were quite young." She said. "I didn't think you remembered."

"I remember very little, Your Grace." The girl's tone was on the brink of apologetic, but then turned firmer. "But I do remember the skulls."

The girl and the woman stared at each other in absolute silence for a few moments, the sight of the dead dragons hovering above them, waiting for a single sound, like one treacherous beat of heart, that would awake them.

"We know some of them." Rhaella replied at last; her voice sounded slightly breathless even to her own ears. "First and foremost, those you have just mentioned."

Cersei nodded, but said nothing. Rhaella watched her carefully, but unfortunately, her observations weren't of much use. It seemed she wasn't the only person in the room capable of crafting a flawless mask.

"Why do you ask?" Perhaps words would reveal the secrets features refused to give up. "Why does it matter, which skull belonged to which dragon?"

"I…" Cersei paused, but then shrugged her shoulders. "I would just like to know."

Her innocent answer seemed genuine. Rhaella sighed inwardly, feeling old and infinitely tired. Hadn't she and Aerys, a long, _long_ time ago when something as innocent and pure as love had existed between them, posed that same question to their grandfather Aegon? Hadn't they been absolutely absorbed in his stories of different times, of dragons and men and women who rode them? He had been a man of so many stories, her grandfather, about other people's adventures as much as his own. He and Grandmother were the only ones who had taken Rhaella's side when she had told her father she didn't want to marry Aerys. But Father had insisted they were to wed, fiercely encouraged by Uncle Duncan's wife and the witch that had followed her wherever she went. Rhaella had never voiced her thoughts, being too dutiful a daughter, niece and granddaughter, but she _loathed_ those women. Jenny of Oldstones and her witch companion had been dead for years, but flames of unadulterated hatred still burned brightly within Rhaella, unblemished by passage of time. If anything, she hated them more with each new day that made Aerys more paranoid and violent. It was their fault she was stuck in a loveless marriage with a man who at times didn't even seem sane. Just because of some alleged dreams about a Prince Who Was Promised.

"Well, I can have somebody show them to you tomorrow." She offered, firmly shoving thoughts of the despised women aside.

Cersei nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Your Grace."

The shadows still hadn't quite left her eyes.

Had she really been so deeply affected by Aerys' words? Rhaella guessed it wasn't impossible. In the earlier days of their marriage, she had blamed herself for his behaviour towards her, believing she had wronged him in some way; what else could have made him humiliate her at every given opportunity? In time, she had learned he mistreated her simply because he could; she knew better than anyone what it was like to be the target of his cruelty.

 _And nobody ever cared; not Father, not Mother, not…_

No, that wasn't true. One person _had_ cared. However, that person had died and left Rhaella feeling all alone in the world. If it weren't for her sons…

"Perhaps Rhaegar would be willing to show you the skulls." She forced her lips to shape a smile that masked her dark thoughts.

After all, it was Rhaegar who had asked her to dine with Cersei, probably to get to know her. He had never shown interest in a lady before that went beyond gallantry and politeness; his desire for them to get acquainted was peculiar as much as precarious. He couldn't have picked a lady that was more dangerous for him to care for, not with the conflict between the king and his Hand constantly bubbling beneath the surface. Rhaella knew she shouldn't be encouraging their interactions, but she couldn't help her curiosity or escape the feeling of inevitability.

 _Joanna's daughter. Of all people._

With her eyebrows raised and her mouth slightly open, Cersei seemed surprised by her suggestion. A golden spark illuminated her eyes, though, making her look like a child who had been given a new toy.

 _That's what she is after all. A child, caught up in a dangerous game._

"I…" Cersei lowered her eyes shyly, a blush covering her cheeks. "I would be honoured if the prince would show them to me."

Suddenly, Rhaella struggled to keep memories at bay, memories of _her_ first (and only) love. Going out of her way to see him. Meeting his eyes across the room. Feeling his hand brush against hers as he walked by. Watching him riding into the distance, never to return.

"I will ask him." She promised, grateful she didn't have to utter that many words. Her voice would have broken soon enough under the weight of years and years of suppressed feelings.

 _I'm the queen._ She thought bitterly. _I ought to be stronger._

( _If I were stronger, I wouldn't let Aerys treat me as he has. I would defy him. I would fight him._

But she couldn't, not with Rhaegar and especially Viserys vulnerable to his rage. Her children were all she had, all that made cling onto life. She had lost too many of them to death to risk losing her two precious boys. No parent should have to bury their child.)

"Thank you, Your Grace." Cersei's voice, filled with genuine happiness, snapped Rhaella out of her musings.

The girl was smiling for the first time since she had entered the queen's chambers; despite the storm of emotions raging within her, Rhaella found herself smiling back, more sincerely this time. If there was no way of escaping the intertwining of fates of Houses Lannister and Targaryen, it brought her comfort as a mother to know her son apparently wouldn't be condemned to a loveless marriage like she was. Of course, it would demand effort on both his and Cersei's part, but they already seemed to hold more affection for each other than Rhaella remembered ever having held for her brother-husband.

She considered asking more questions, feeling she had barely scratched the surface, but she found the silence too pleasant to interrupt it. Besides, there would be other opportunities for them to speak; Tywin surely wouldn't send his daughter back to Casterly Rock so soon, despite Aerys' shaming of her. If anything, he would expect her to learn to deal with it (if that would even be necessary – today had been the first time in months Aerys had joined his Small Council and he surely wouldn't change his idling habits just to humiliate a ten-year-old girl, whoever she might be). Rhaella decided she would keep an eye on her, both for her and for Rhaegar's sake, even if it meant putting up with Joanna's ghost haunting her.

( _Though in less solid form than a young girl, Joanna's ghost had been haunting her for years anyway._ )

"Ser Arthur will escort you back to your chambers." She said softly when they were finished with their meal, having previously gestured to one of her maids to summon the knight.

She then rose to her feet, allowing Cersei to stand up as well.

Smile still lingering on her lips, Cersei curtsied gracefully. "Your Grace."

Behind her back, Ser Arthur appeared at the door.

"Ser Gwayne will stay with you until I return, Your Grace."

"Who stands guard in front of Viserys' chamber?" She asked straightaway.

"Ser Barristan, Your Grace." He replied reassuringly, not needing her to pose other questions on her mind. "Ser Jonothor and Ser Gerold are guarding the king and Ser Oswell Prince Rhaegar."

She let out an inward breath of relief. Her family was safe and well-guarded. Despite Aerys' treatment of her, it was her duty to care about him.

It wasn't her duty to care about her sons. That she did out of love.

"I will see you tomorrow." Cordially, she nodded her goodbye at Cersei.

The girl curtsied once again silently and then followed Ser Arthur. When the door closed behind them, Rhaella closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Behind her eyelids, she saw Joanna's face, as clearly as though the woman was standing right in front of her.

 _She has your smile, one that melts ice and ensnares hearts._ Nobody could hear her unsaid words, but Joanna always could. Always. _But she isn't you and Rhaegar isn't Aerys. Let us hope history won't repeat itself._

* * *

Lost in his thoughts, Rhaegar stared absently at the flickering flames, the only light in a vast room deep beneath the Red Keep. Judging by the amount of dust on the floor, the perfect grey surface ruined by footprints left by his boots, nobody had set foot there for years, maybe even decades. It was a perfect place for secret rendezvous, abandoned and forgotten.

 _What did Maegor intend this room for when he commanded it was to be built? Or had it been Visenya's idea to have it here? Whatever the case, they surely didn't intend it for_ _ **this**_ _– to be useless._

Perhaps it had been meant for secret meetings even back then. It was separated by thick wooden door from the rest of the castle, in case any soul accidentally ventured in its direction. The door would cut off any sound made, even that of two swords clashing in battle.

He only needed someone to hold the other sword.

( _The dragon has three heads, but there have always been only two swords._ )

The sound of wood creaking snapped him out of his thoughts. He raised his head and saw a silhouette scraping through the narrow space between the door and the doorpost. When the light from the torch she was carrying illuminated her face, he saw her eyes wander about curiously as she absorbed her surroundings. She didn't seem afraid; Arthur must have told her he would be expecting her.

"Lady Lannister." He called softly, so she wouldn't be startled by his presence.

She shot him a quick smile before curtsying. "My prince."

"Forgive me for the hour and the place of our meeting." He motioned briefly at their surroundings. "But for now, it will have to do."

He had asked Mother to invite her to dinner so Arthur could afterwards lead her here, instead of accompanying her back to her chambers. The queen thought she had returned to the Tower of the Hand and Tywin would assume, for a little while longer at least, that she was still in Rhaella's chambers. They had at least an hour before Cersei's absence would be noticed. His absence, on the other hand, wasn't so unusual, given his inclinations towards isolating himself so he could read and play harp in peace. He had left his room (and Ser Oswell in front of it) with the harp in his hands, so any spy of his father's would only snicker in the shadows at his love for music, thinking him too soft and too absorbed in such a feminine activity to ever pose any real threat to the king.

(However, their opinion reverted every time they saw him with a sword in his hand.)

He handed her one of the swords he had left there that morning, after he and Arthur had finished practicing swordplay. Her fingers curled around the hilt without hesitancy; when she raised the sword towards him, he couldn't find a single detail in her posture that needed correction.

"You look like you've done this before, my lady." He remarked enquiringly, allowing the tip of his blade to meet hers.

For a moment, her eyes ceased to meet his, as if his words had stirred a painful memory. It could have all been his imagination, for the corners of her lips curled up mischievously. There was something decisively bold about that smile, something that made his blood grow warmer in his veins.

"I sometimes switched places with my brother when we were younger." She admitted with pride. "We looked so alike back then nobody was able to tell us apart. I got to learn _something_ about swordplay."

He could see her clearly, shorter and thinner than she was now, but with the same golden hair whirling around her as she tried to master lessons meant for her brother, in his mind's eye. The sight – and an unexpected fondness for her rebellious streak – lured a smile to his lips.

"I will teach you the rest, my lady."

Just as he was about to swing his sword, she took a breath, implying she wasn't done speaking.

"Cersei."

It was said more like a dare than a request. To his surprise, he found himself intrigued rather than insulted.

"You will be teaching me to be a warrior." She said as an answer to his inquiring silence. "Not a lady."

There weren't many things that amused him, but her nerve did. She was testing the boundaries between them already. To his surprise, he felt inclined to indulge in that game. For now, until he was certain she was mature enough to stop playing.

"My lady." He bowed slightly, shooting her a challenging grin.

In a heartbeat, their blades started composing a song of steel.

* * *

" _Too slow, brother."_

 _The defeated one refused to drop the sword until the tip of the other blade, thinner than the one in his hand, came to linger too close to the soft skin on the side of his throat._

" _Alright, I give up!" He threw his sword into dirt in frustration._

 _It was so satisfying to watch him lose control like that. The blade remained where it was._

" _You have more time to work on your skills, is all!" He protested fiercely – a stupid move, given that he was now empty-handed. "And you got lucky." He added in calmer tone._

 _A mocking chuckle echoed the yard; the thinner blade returned to its sheath._

" _I'm simply better at swordplay, brother. Sooner or later, you'll have to accept it."_

" _Can we go flying now?" Third person joined them in the empty yard, a silver-haired girl younger than the two, an excited smile playing on her lips._

 _As if summoned by her question, a shadow appeared above them, covering the sun. As one, they smiled at the girl._

" _Of course, Rhaen…"_

 _ **That's enough.**_

* * *

 **A/N: Just in case it was unclear, this last bit in italic was a dream sequence. As to whose and what it meant, I'm leaving the guesses to you.  
**

 **As for reviews left by guest reviewers, here's my answer that kind of concernes all of them. Yes, I believe that as far as ASOIAF world is concerned, all prophecies do come true, but rarely in the way the characters expect them to. Just because Cersei's life isn't going to be the same as it was in cannon, it doesn't mean she'll be any happier in this version. The destination is still more or less the same, even if the path that leads to it isn't. I really can't say more, because it'll spoil the story. You'll just have to wait and see.**


	5. V

**277 AC**

As it often did during their morning meals, silence lingered between Cersei and her father as they were breaking their fast. Her eyelids heavy with the lack of sleep, she silently thanked the gods Father kept his questions and lectures for evening meals. She needed food in her belly and sunrays to wash over her face before she could claim she was truly awake.

It had been long past midnight when she had returned to her chambers that night after her lesson with Rhaegar, with the newest bruise on her left knee. She now had four of them; one on her left elbow, one on her right thigh and one on each knee, their colour shimmering between blue and purple, depending on the time when she had got them. She made sure never to offer any of her maids a direct view on them, lest they reported to Father she had more bruises on her skin than any lady ought to have.

(Perhaps learning swordplay had not been the best idea after all. Perhaps there was a reason why it was reserved only for boys.

No, she wouldn't give up just because of a few bruises. Visenya herself must have surely had every inch of her skin covered in blue at some point too before she became one of the fiercest warriors the world had ever seen. If she could have done it, then Cersei could do it too.)

It wasn't only Father's anger she was worried about; drawing the king's attention was the last thing she (and Rhaegar) wanted. Their lessons had to remain secret at all costs; besides the two of them, the only one who knew of their meetings deep beneath the castle was Ser Arthur Dayne. He was Rhaegar's closest friend, loyal to a fault to the Crown prince; with that advantage, it wasn't that difficult for Rhaegar to escape any possible spies his father had sent to observe and report his whereabouts. It would have been quite challenging for Cersei to escape her chambers and the guards Father had assigned her, had she not accidentally discovered a hidden passage behind one of the walls in her chambers one afternoon as she'd been looking for a place to hide one of her dresses that had paid the price of her sword-fighting lessons. After a fortnight of exploring the passage bit by bit, she had discovered that it led to the bottom of the Tower of the Hand, just enough for her to avoid any Lannister guards stationed within the tower itself. After that obstacle had been surmounted, reaching the chamber where Rhaegar awaited her was quite easy; nobody expected to see a young girl sneaking though the castle in the middle of the night. It enabled them to meet every night, unlike before, when they had only met once or twice a week, depending on Cersei's creativity with excuses to the guards and her ability to mask as one of her young maids.

Unfortunately, spending time with Rhaegar had its price (beside the bruises). With sleep-deprivation slowly taking its toll on her, she spent more and more of her afternoons deep in sleep. The growing paleness of her skin only enhanced the contrast to the dark bags beneath her eyes (she had to cover them with paint she had seen other ladies use to hide imperfections on their skin). Her upper arms had ached terribly in the first few weeks, unused to the weight of a sword, but luckily, _that_ inconvenience was now in the past. Soft flesh had turned into toned muscles; she had noticed even jugs of wine weren't as heavy as before.

Still, what wouldn't she give for a month of regular, all-night sleep. Mornings always came too soon and stretched into forever, especially when she had to spend them at the Small Council meetings. Listening to six men talking about subjects she had no interest in or didn't even understand never ceased to challenge her ability to stay awake. She had developed a habit of pinching her forearm whenever she caught her thoughts drifting off; it was painful, but effective (the real problem lay in becoming aware she was daydreaming). Despite the dullness of the matters that were discussed, she did try her best to pay attention to every word said. It wasn't only because Father would be furious (enough so that he might decide to send her back to Casterly Rock) if he noticed her attention drifting off elsewhere; her other motive to absorb as much knowledge as she could on how to rule was even greater than fear. King Aerys hadn't made an appearance at the meetings since that first time, but she was determined to make him regret the day he'd called her a servant and a little girl in that sneering tone. She, _a servant_ , would make a better queen than he'd ever been a king, she had unwaveringly decided just to spite the man.

She was startled back to the present by the voice of one of the servants coming from unexpected proximity. As lost in her thoughts as she'd been, she hadn't even noticed the man approaching.

"Forgive me, milord." The servant said, bowing before them. "A letter for Lady Lannister."

Father nodded his permission for him to deliver the letter without even looking at the man. Cersei wiped her mouth and hands clean of bread crumbs as the man wearing Lannister crimson left the letter on the table. She opened the envelope and quickly scanned the letter's contents.

(Honestly, it seemed like Jaime's handwriting got worse with every letter, as if he made Tyrion write them. It _was_ her twin's hand that was to be blamed for the mess on the paper though; she recognized the characteristic loop Jaime's _y's_ had instead of a straight line at the end – a consequence of Jaime's impatience to be done with a quill so he could take a sword into his hand again. She _could_ decipher it, but if Father caught sight of it…)

"Is it your brother?" Father asked, not bothering to sound interested.

"Yes." She nodded, fighting her way through nearly unintelligible words and incorrect grammar.

"What does he say?"

She cleared her throat to buy herself a few more moments.

"He says he's beaten every boy of his age at swordplay." It was not technically a lie, even if the letter said: ' _I p… (what by the Seven was written there?)…practice (maybe?) with my s…sword every day and i am the best at it._ '

Father didn't look impressed. "And?"

"He says he misses us," She couldn't supress a smirk; of course he missed her (and if she was being honest with herself, she missed him too), "And asks when we'll come to visit."

"Not for at least a few months." Father said dismissively, taking a gulp of water.

With her face hidden from his gaze behind the edge of the goblet, he missed the glare she shot him. With his insistence to remain in King's Landing, he was robbing her of a chance to clash blades with Jaime. She had so much to tell her twin, so much to show him, because he wouldn't believe her otherwise (being Jaime, he probably _would_ believe her, but Rhaegar had told her not to mention their lessons even in a letter – letters could be intercepted). Perhaps she was already better than him at swordplay. It would feel so good to beat him.

 _Don't be ridiculous. You have only been practicing for months while he's been running around with a sword since he could lift one. You have a long way to go before you can match even your brother, let alone a skilled swordsman. Perhaps you could use a few more bruises to remind you of that._

"And his lessons?" Father's voice interrupted her inner argument.

She shrugged her shoulders, willing her voice to remain even. "He didn't mention them."

"I'll write to Kevan." He stood up and summoned a servant to clean up with a wave of hand. "Jaime needs to take his responsibilities more seriously. Make sure you mention that to him as well."

"Yes, Father." She nodded dutifully.

' _Tyrion is says 'h…hello' and he l…loves you very much._ '

 _I mustn't forget to mention him too._ She mused, annoyed that she had to lie through her teeth that she cared about the little beast, even if it was only via letters. Still, the prophecy hung ominously over her head; she couldn't ignore it. _He'll get a 'say hello to Tyrion' or something like that. That's more than he deserves._

"Leave that here." Father gestured to the letter. Or perhaps he was referring to what was left of food on her plate. She wasn't really finished with her meal, but she knew better than to argue.

"Take that to my chambers." She handed the letter to the servant and then followed Father out of the room, down the stairs and at last, outside the Tower of the Hand.

Soon, they took their places at the Small Council, Father at the head of it, Cersei in the corner behind his back. If the rest of the lords on the Small Council agreed with the king that she didn't belong there, none of them had dared voice their objections so far. Father had been acting as though that incident with King Aerys had never happened and they followed suit, clearly fearing him more than they did the king. Cersei didn't give them any reason to complain; she was quick and efficient in her work, invisible and soundless in between. She listened carefully, memorizing things she didn't understand, so she could ask Father to explain them to her later.

(She had discovered (to her great surprise) that he seemed pleased that she asked questions; perhaps he saw it as a proof that she indeed listened. If she'd known that when he'd first started with his 'lessons', she could have spared herself a great deal of apprehension.)

The door to the room opened once again.

But everyone was already there…

"Yourgraceyourgraceyourgraceyourgrace…"

The voices all blended into one in Cersei's ears, syllables following one another as rapidly as the beats of Cersei's heart. She wished she could disappear into the wall behind her back, but the cold stone refused to move. There was no secret passage there, no way of escaping.

"I thought you'd dealt with the Darklyns." The king snarled at Tywin, thankfully not sparing a glance in Cersei's direction. He threw a piece of paper into the Hand's face and marched on to seat himself onto the only empty chair. "What is this then?"

Tense silence washed over the room as Father skimmed through the words. Despite standing behind the king's chair, out of his sight, Cersei didn't dare breathe. He was clearly in a bad mood; letting him know she was there, against his orders, would only provoke his temper further. She felt in her bones that the consequences this time would be far worse than shame.

"If it would please Your Grace, I will bring Lord Darklyn to King's Landing to explain himself to you." Father nodded at the king, his voice firm and resolute. Cersei knew he wouldn't hesitate to use force to fulfil his promise.

 _Darklyn._ _Darklyn._ She mused, trying to sort through the many family names of Westerosi nobility. Ah, yes, the lords of Duskendale. A family (and a town) that had once been mighty and formidable, but was now lying in the shadows of those who had risen above them.

"It would have pleased me if you'd solved this problem weeks ago." King Aerys spat. Father's calmness seemed to only serve as fuel to the flames of his fury. "You told me that little lordling was only trying to see where our boundaries were, but that he'd eventually yield to our demands."

"It seems I underestimated the foolishness of young lord Darklyn." Father shrugged his shoulders, his eyes returning to the note in his hands. "If he has good reasons for his actions, which I sincerely doubt he does, he should come to you to explain them, not invite you to come to him."

He dropped the note onto the table, resting his case. As she (and everyone else) waited for the king's answer, Cersei was biting her lip nervously, hoping Aerys would simply accept Father's advice, have him send soldiers to bring the defiant lord to him and leave the room. It would be a reasonable thing to do (and it would spare her having to explain her presence there to the king).

"So, your advice is not to accept his invitation?" Alas, judging by the mocking note in his voice, King Aerys had no intentions of being reasonable.

Father nodded, ignoring the king's tone.

"So," There was something acidic about the chuckle that fell from the king's lips, making hairs rise on the back of Cersei's neck (had no-one noticed it except for her?) "Seeing as Lord Darklyn has refused to come to King's Landing, you would have me do nothing as one of my vassals refuses to pay what he owes me?"

"He needs to be taught a lesson, Your Grace." Father said coldly, his voice cutting through the silence like steel. "Nothing teaches an arrogant man a lesson like an army in front of his gates."

The other lords, who seemed to have gone mute, let their eyes wander from the king to the Hand and back, never letting their gazes linger on either man for too long. Cersei guessed they were thinking about the same thing she was; the absolute eradication of two families in the Westerlands about a decade and a half before. Her father knew how to deal with rebellious lords; surely there was no-one more suitable for advising the king on the subject (and no better advice to be given)?

"He needs to be taught a lesson, I agree." The king spoke finally. Even to Cersei's ears, he sounded quite sensible.

Until he uttered: "But so does everyone else."

He stood up, towering above Father – only because the Hand remained seated.

"I will go to Duskendale myself and bring its lord to heel – _without_ an army." The king announced to the room, but his eyes remained glued to Tywin's. "I am the king. They wouldn't _dare_ defy me in person."

Not everyone in the room had perfected the ability to conceal their sentiments like Father; the other lords looked shocked by the king's decision, even if they didn't dare protest against it. On the other hand, Tywin's expression gave nothing away, his features like embossed in stone, rigid, unmoved, emotionless.

"I would advise against it, Your Grace." His voice grew only a tad firmer, but it was enough to betray his opposition to Aerys' plan.

With his hands clasped behind his back, the king bent forward, his face coming so close to the Hand's that Cersei felt admiration for her father for standing his ground and not leaning backwards. Her heart couldn't be pounding faster even if she'd been sitting in that chair in Father's place, her face bathed in the king's breath.

"And I've decided not to heed your advice." The king snarled coldly. He then finally moved out of Tywin's personal space; Cersei let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. "This realm clearly needs a reminder that disrespecting their king will not go unpunished."

His eyes fell on her. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

The sight sent shivers down her spine which settled in the pit of her stomach like a cluster of rocks, making her feel like she was about to throw up.

He had been aware of her presence all along.

"Your daughter will be joining me." The king was speaking to her father, but didn't take his eyes off Cersei. "We are leaving tomorrow at midday."

For the first time in her life, Cersei saw Father's indifferent mask crack. He didn't open his mouth to object – that would have been too much of a break – but his eyes did spread in alarm. He looked like he was worried – for _her_.

But not nearly as much as she was worried for herself. How long would that journey last? How long would she have to suffer having only the king for company? How long would she be separated from Rhaegar?

 _Whether we will return alive is a better question._

She hadn't even noticed she and Father were the only people left in the room until he grabbed her shoulder fiercely. His nails ran painfully into her skin, making her gasp.

"Listen to me very carefully." His narrowed eyes were boring into hers so intensely she again forgot how to breathe. "You are a Lannister. You are my daughter. If anyone even thinks of causing you harm, remind them they will face all the power and rage of House Lannister and pay for every insult tenfold. _Do_ you understand me?"

Trembling as though she had a fever, with a lump in her throat the size of a dragon egg, she barely nodded.

He let go of her and marched out of the room without even glancing at her. Somehow, she dragged her feet to the chair where he'd been sitting and collapsed into it. She struggled to draw breath, her mind constantly returning to his words. He'd seemed…alarmed, nearly out of control (by his standards). What could have caused it? What was going to happen to her?

"Lady Lannister?"

She hadn't even noticed she wasn't alone anymore until skirts of a dress the colour of clouds that couldn't decide whether to drop rain onto the world or not appeared in her line of vision. She raised her head and saw Queen Rhaella watching her with concern in her violet eyes. Before she could restrain her tongue, words flew out of her mouth.

"The king is taking me with him to Duskendale." She murmured quietly, not trusting her own voice not to break.

"Yes," The queen nodded sympathetically, "So I have heard."

"But I don't want to go." Cersei wasn't the one to beg, but she _was_ begging now. If the queen saw how scared she was, maybe she would speak to the king and convince him to let her stay in King's Landing. "I think my father thinks someone will try to hurt me there."

The queen didn't belie her, despite Cersei's desperate wish for her to do so. She sighed and drew the nearest chair closer to the one Cersei was sitting on – the one King Aerys had been occupying. The queen sat down gracefully; for a few moments, the girl and the woman stared at each other in silence, exchanging unspoken words. The queen then reached for Cersei's hand; Cersei was so crestfallen about her fate she gladly let Rhaella's fingers curl around hers.

"It's been a long time since my husband considered my opinion important." The queen squeezed her hand gently. "But I will try to persuade him to reconsider his decision."

Cersei could see Rhaella didn't have much hope in success; she didn't have much hope herself. Part of her fear turned into anger; this wasn't what being the (future) queen was supposed to be. She wasn't supposed to risk her own safety just because the king felt the need to show off in front of her.

 _I cannot die just yet._ She repeated to herself, holding onto Maggy's words desperately. She had been scorning them since the moment they'd formed on the witch's mouth, but now they were her only solace. _I need to become queen first. Perhaps the king will die in Duskendale and upon my return, I will wed King Rhaegar._

That sounded like much more acceptable version of the future – if only she could convince herself it was true.

"Thank you, Your Grace." She bowed her head, letting her hand slide out of the queen's.

She watched through her eyelashes as Queen Rhaella stood up and left her sight. The brief pause in the queen's steps caused her to raise her head again; Rhaella was standing at the door, watching her compassionately over her shoulder. Cersei looked away almost instantly, not wanting to be reminded of her powerlessness. She didn't need the queen's pity; she needed her to stand up to the king and make him leave Cersei in the capital.

She remained sitting until she could no longer hear the queen's steps. Then she got to her feet and hurried to the Tower of the Hand, not stopping to wait for her guards. The moment she arrived to her chambers, she locked herself inside and threw herself onto the bed, hoping the sheets would swallow her for a day and let her go only when the king was far on his way to Duskendale.

 _I could hide in the passage._ She mused, glancing at the wall that concealed the secret corridor. _They would never find me in time. He'd have to leave without me._

 _But what if he doesn't leave without you?_ A voice in her head said cynically. _You couldn't hide in there forever._

She scoffed scornfully.

 _I wouldn't have to. Just until he dies._

 _You know wishing death upon your king is treason, don't you?_

Honestly, were all voices of reason as annoying as hers?

 _He can't prove it._ This conversation with herself was getting tiresome. She stood up and grabbed a piece of paper and a quill. She could definitely use a distraction and writing a letter to Jaime was still, despite many months having passed, a battle on its own.

(After that fiasco with the drawing, a strange feeling had settled within her that her twin would see through her any lie. She had considered refraining from writing to him completely and stopping wasting her time on the letters, but she couldn't bring herself to cut that last thread that connected them (on the outside at least). Jaime was her twin, her other half – it was a bond that couldn't be broken after all, not even by her.)

Sun had fallen low in the sky when she finally finished the letter. She put the quill aside carelessly and began to evaluate what she had written.

 _ **Dear Jaime,**_

 _ **I hope this letter finds you well, my beloved brother.**_

 _ **Both Father and I are in good health, and so is the royal family. Everyone in the palace is excited about Prince Viserys' first steps. He is indeed the most beautiful child I have ever seen.**_

 _ **My days are mostly the same; there is little to tell about them. I still spend mornings with Father at the Small Council meetings; it surprises me every day that there are matters that haven't been discussed. Occasionally I dine with the queen; she is kind and often asks me about our childhood in Casterly Rock. I do hope you'll get to meet her one day**_.

 _ **The king has done me a great honour today by inviting me to accompany him on his journey to Duskendale. I hope the trip won't last for too long; I've grown very fond of King's Landing and I'll hate to leave it. Father told me we wouldn't be visiting Casterly Rock for at least a few months (he also asked me to tell you to take your responsibilities more seriously – I'm warning you so you it doesn't come as a surprise to you when you hear it from Uncle Kevan), so I hope he will agree to let you come to visit instead. There is so much I want to show to you and I miss you dearly too.**_

 _ **Say hello to Tyrion for me and give my regards to all my family. I hope they are all faring well.**_

 _ **All my love,**_

 _ **Your sister,**_

 _ **Cersei**_

* * *

 _A warrior cannot afford to be distracted._

A heartbeat after that thought had been conveyed within her mind, Cersei lost her balance and landed into dust – for the third time in as many minutes.

She pressed the tip of her forefinger against the bruise on the side of her thigh that had received most of the impact, trying to assess the damage through the fabric of her dress. A groan slipped past her lips when pain surged through her leg. The bruise would be blue again tomorrow, she knew with certainty she was anything but proud of; she wasn't supposed to be an expert on bruises.

"My lady?" Rhaegar crouched at her side, his sword sheathed again. "Are you alright?"

No, she thought with frustration washing over her, _of course_ she wasn't alright. She hadn't been able to focus on _anything_ , too distracted by thoughts of leaving for Duskendale tomorrow. No word had come from either the queen or the king about the change of plans regarding her departure. She hadn't seen Father all day either; part of her hoped he'd been aiding Queen Rhaella in her attempts to dissuade King Aerys from taking Cersei with him. Another part of her _knew_ he wouldn't question the king's decision on her behalf. If it were Jaime in her place…

 _Thinking about it is a waste of time. Focus on what's happening here and now._

But she couldn't. Whenever her thoughts wandered off in that direction (and they did so often), her hands began to shake so much she could barely hold the sword, allowing Rhaegar to easily knock her off her feet. The prince didn't seem to have noticed her distress; he helped her to her feet every time she fell, but never paused to search for the source of her lack of concentration.

No more. She was too tired to carry on.

"I don't want to." She protested weakly, pulling her knees closer to her torso and hugging them.

"My lady?" Rhaegar's face was out of her sight, but she could hear the confusion in his voice.

"I have to go Duskendale tomorrow." Her voice was dripping with misery and helplessness, even against her will. "But I don't want to go."

A few moments passed in silence; then she felt a hand leaning on her shoulder almost awkwardly, as if its owner didn't really know how to handle a young girl on the brink of tears.

"Mother told me what had happened this morning." He said hesitatingly, choosing his words cautiously. "We both tried to reason with the king, but he was adamant in his decision that you were coming with him tomorrow."

 _You should have tried harder!_ She wanted to yell, but bit her tongue. Why hadn't he fought harder for her? What if she got hurt because he'd been too weak to defy his father?

"Are you afraid?"

His tone was strange, as if the thought had never crossed his mind until then.

Before she could restrain her fury, her eyes were already glaring at him, narrowed like two slits.

"Of course I am!" He nearly lost his balance as he backed away from her, as if burned by the wrath in her eyes. "My father told me I could be hurt in Duskendale, but he did nothing to prevent my departure. The queen told me she would try to make the king change his mind, but she clearly failed. I could _die_ there and nobody would care." _Not even you._

The shouting left her feeling breathless and empty. She let her head fall onto her knees and stared at the shadows the light of torches couldn't touch. It was all too much to handle; Father's expectations, the king's disdain, Rhaegar's blindness, lack of Jaime at her side…

"My mother wouldn't have tried to change my father's mind just for anyone, you know."

Whatever she'd been expecting his answer to be, that wasn't it. However, she didn't want him to know he'd caught her off guard, so she remained quiet.

If only her thoughts could be silenced as easily.

It was only when he'd said it out loud that it occured to her; despite the fact she clearly feared her husband, Queen Rhaella had put Cersei's well-being above her own. As keeping (or trying to keep) Cersei safe was worth the risk. As if she... _cared_.

 _But why would she care?_

"Besides," Rhaegar's voice snapped her out of her musings, "You won't die in Duskendale."

She kept her eyes on the darkness, still refusing to look at him.

"You don't know that." It was petty and disrespectful, she knew it, but she was too tired and too scared to care.

"Yes, I do." Suddenly, he moved to kneel right in front of her and took her hands into his. Despite herself, she felt warmth spreading across her skin from all the places his skin was touching hers. When she raised her head, she found him looking at her with unwavering certainty, his violet eyes burning into hers. "You and I have much to accomplish together, Cersei Lannister. You _will_ return to me."

His claims sounded so inevitable she couldn't bring herself to question them. Especially not when they sounded like a promise – not only that she would return to him, but also that he would wait for her. She glanced at their coupled hands briefly; she liked that promise very much.

"What do we have to accomplish, my prince?" She asked softly when her eyes met his again.

For a moment, his expression changed, from absolute conviction to the briefest spark of conflict in his eyes. It was gone in a heartbeat; it could have all been just a game of light and shadow. His eyes studied her, captured her, absorbed her; without separating his gaze from hers, he brought her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently. Her heart began to pound so wildly she feared it might jump out of her chest.

 _Could he feel it?_

"I will tell you when you return." He said, his voice not quite even.

Cersei's lungs again seemed to have forgotten their role. All her lucid thoughts had abandoned save for one: was he feeling as nervous as she was? As excited?

For a moment, it indeed seemed so. Then he stood up and pulled her upwards with him. When he let go of her hands, she felt coldness creeping into her blood. She waited until he turned his back on her and then rubbed her hands together, trying to compensate for the lack of warmth of his skin. It was the strangest sensation she had ever experienced, unlike anything she had ever felt before, even with Jaime. Not even when she had parted with her twin had she felt such…loss.

"You ought to get some sleep, my lady." Rhaegar didn't even look at her as he spoke, as if he was deliberately distancing himself from her. He looked and sounded as detached as he'd been during his visit to Casterly Rock, before she'd mentioned the prophecy. "I…I bid you goodnight."

She refused to be sent off like this. Cersei opened her mouth…

 _Don't._

…and closed it again. She curtsied silently and left the Crown prince alone with his thoughts without looking at him. Despite her hopes, he didn't call after her.

She tried to figure out what had happened as she climbed the secret staircase and later as she lay in her bed, but her exhausted (and troubled) mind could only process as much. Dreams came soon, wrapping her into silky promises of oblivion. She welcomed them gladly and eagerly, unhesitatingly letting herself fall into the sweet embrace of darkness.

* * *

 _She rode out into a starless night, a sword at her hip. Unhesitating, unyielding like a storm – her hair was lightning, her breath was wind._

 _The blade was tainted with blood. Not for the first time, she had met death and walked away. She would meet it again; it was like a dance and she knew her steps._

 _There was no crown on her head, but her poise was that of a queen. Her head was held high, her eyes gazed boldly. She bowed to no-one. She feared no-one._

 _Her mount – a dragon. Her scales as white as snow, her eyes as blue as sapphires. Tonight she was the only star in the sky._

 _A town lay behind her, silent in the darkness. The smell of burnt flesh still lingered in the air. She spared a glance – just one – then turned her gaze south, towards the capital. Unlike many, she had nothing to fear in that nest of vipers. Her death lay north; she had seen it._

 _When Dragonstone was covered in snow, when the Wall burst into flames, when the swords reunited – that was when the dance would end._

* * *

After many nights, the meaning of the dream was finally clear.

She must go to Duskendale.


	6. VI

**Hello again, sorry about the delay. I had a plan about how I wanted the story to proceed, but after talking to _Aegon Blacksteel_ , I realized it was flawed so I had to rethink the whole thing and then write it down. I think it makes more sense now, I hope you will too.  
**

 **I took a few liberties with minor charachters we don't know much about. If my versions in any way do not match canon, I apologize.**

 **And last: 100 followers! Thank you for finding this story worthy of your time :)**

Horses galloping. A voice or two urging the animals forward – one could very well belong to their prey.

Beneath a cloth that covered his face from nose to chin, Damon Marbrand took a deep breath. The time had come.

His men were in positions on both sides of the road, hidden amidst trees. The forest was as if the gods had grown it for their task – far enough from Duskendale that no help could come, at least not in time, close enough to Duskendale that the Darklyns would take the blame for not having dealt with supposed outlaws roaming it. Given how little time they'd had to prepare this trap, Damon was quite confident it would be executed successfully, without any loose ends left.

He and his dozen men (less and they would have been outnumbered, more and the story of robbers on the road would have raised a few suspicions) were chosen by Tywin Lannister himself – men who knew how to keep their mouth shut, skilful and clever enough to pull this charade off. They couldn't afford to be recognized, hence the hoods and cloths that covered their faces. Four of the best archers among them already held their bows, nocked arrows waiting to be set loose on the unsuspecting party approaching them. Other men, including Damon, were holding swords in their hands; their duty was to make the farce believable, hide one intended crime among many.

He cast a quick glance on the faces of men surrounding him; they all looked focused and determined. Good men, the lot of them, and Tywin had put _him_ in command of them. He felt proud that the Hand had entrusted him with this task (even though he was only a few years younger than Tywin and should feel no need for his approval). This was his chance to prove his worth to Lord Lannister as more than a mere vassal. This was his chance to raise his House in the eyes of the most powerful man in the Realm and he wouldn't waste it.

His fingers curled more firmly around the hilt. Tywin's voice echoed in his mind, giving the command.

 _The king must die._

* * *

The first arrow missed Gwayne by mere centimetres.

The second missed him by even less.

"Bandits!" He yelled at the same time as three different men.

Gwayne's attention immediately turned to the king. The sight that greeted him made his breath freeze in his throat. Aerys' head was bowed low – too low. A black arrow stretched out of the king's abdomen; Gwayne wouldn't even see it if Aerys didn't have his pale fingers curled around it.

"Ride forward!" He roared, grabbing the reins the reins of the king's horse. He wasn't sure if the king was capable of riding on his own, but he wouldn't take any chances.

He pulled with all of his strength, forcing the animal to follow his mount as it lunged forward. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw the king clinging desperately onto the horse's beige mane with his other hand, his knuckles white with effort and panic. Their group, which had been riding at unhurried pace, was suddenly galloping forward like possessed. The horses had formed a circle around Gwayne, the king and Lady Lannister to shield them from arrows, but the animals soon started to fall one by one, forcing their riders to jump off (if they were lucky and quick enough) and making them easy targets for the archers. Out of the corner of his eye, Gwayne saw outlaws sweeping out of the woods with swords in their hands, heading for the men now left on foot. He kicked his horse's sides forcefully, ignoring the animal's protests. There was no time to bring the bandits to justice. They needed to reach Duskendale as soon as possible. Every moment mattered.

Breathing heavily, he dared glance at the sight behind his back once more.

Only five men of the original party that had consisted of two dozen men were still riding alongside him, the king and Lady Lannister. On his right side, the king was (thank the gods) still clinging onto his horse. His fingers were intertwined with the horse's mane, but Gwayne noticed their grasp was not as tight. His head was resting now on the horse's neck, so the Kingsguard couldn't see his face. Gwayne swallowed hard and gave another kick at his horse's sides, feeling his heartbeat acquire additional speed stirred by panic. There was no time to waste.

Behind them, his men – or what was left of them – tried to prevent the outlaws from following them. For a moment, he considered turning his horse and rushing back to their aid. He had known some of them for years, lived under the same roof with them, called them friends. He shouldn't be abandoning them, not when they were fighting for their very lives. His white cloak – the symbol of his duty to the king – had never weighed more heavily on his shoulders.

( _To this day he wondered whether becoming one of the seven knights of the Kingsguard had been a wise decision, made in the right mind for the right reasons. As the second son of Lord Gaunt, he wouldn't have inherited the title and lands; it had been clear from his earliest days he wouldn't be leading a life of a lord. (Un)fortunately, he was gifted with remarkable swordfighting skills, so his father had nurtured them in hope Gwayne might one day be known throughout the entire realm for them. When Gwayne had been two-and-twenty, he had been noticed by Lord Quarlton Chelsted, master of coin, at the tourney in Bronzegate, which he had won. A few months and won tourneys later, after the tragedy at Summerhall and the death of Ser Duncan the Tall, Gwayne had been offered the white cloak. Hoping to find a purpose in life which winning tourneys had not provided, he had accepted. He hadn't understood back then what he was giving up, what hard choices he would one day be forced to make._

 _Now more than ever, he wished he had._ )

But he had no choice. They understood. They were trying to help him. They were doing their duty, just like he was.

In between him and the battle whose sounds were slowly drifting off into silence, accompanied by one of the men wearing crimson (the Hand's man, sent with them to protect her – and her only), Lady Lannister was riding as fast as her horse would carry her, the skirts of her golden dress floating in the air around her. If her eyes weren't filled with terror, she would look like a princess riding through forest to meet her heart's beloved in secret from stories Gwayne's mother had told him in his childhood. Aside from that detail, she seemed unharmed. However, despite her health being intact, the distance between her and Gwayne slowly grew, as the lady simply wasn't as good a rider as the knight. Gwayne had no desire to leave her with just one guard for protection, but he couldn't wait for her and he was hesitant to leave any of his three remaining men with them. Until they were safe behind the gates of Duskendale, he needed all the men at his disposal to protect the king.

He turned his head away before she could see him watching her and call out to him to wait for her and her guard. He wouldn't be able to ignore her calls ( _she was just a frightened girl – what kind of a monster would he have to be?_ ), but he couldn't afford to ride at her pace. He needed to press forward, otherwise…

( _He couldn't allow himself to finish that thought._ )

Suddenly, the veil of branches was lifted and clear azure sky appeared above them, clouds rolling lazily towards the east. In front of them, the stone walls of Duskendale towered above green fields, bathing in the setting sun. Their only hope, so near and yet so far.

His horse whined in protest, but Gwayne ignored it and kicked its sides once more. Any pause could cost them greatly. He kept his gaze fixed on the Dun Fort in the distance, counting steps, breaths, heartbeats.

It seemed like ages had passed until they finally reached Duskendale. During all that time, Gwayne didn't dare look over his shoulder again. Cowardice wasn't befitting of any knight, but he was too scared of what his eyes might find. He feared he might see a Kingsguard's greatest failure.

His king – _dead_.

* * *

"The king's been wounded! Get the maester, quickly!"

As one, all men turned their heads to their lord like children looking at their father, their eyes wide in uncertainty. An unspoken question was clearly visible in their expressions, hanging above them like a rope above convicted criminals about to be executed.

Unfortunately, Denys Darklyn didn't know the answer at that moment himself.

Lord of Duskendale had just been about to command his men to descend on the six riders that had ridden into the yard like a flock of crows on a deserted battlefield. The command had already been half-formed on his tongue, but before he could utter it, the rider in white had cried out in urgency and the words froze in Lord Darklyn's throat. Caught off guard, Denys watched in absolute silence as the knight of the Kingsguard climbed off his horse and approached the king, who more lay than sat atop the other horse.

"Where is the maester?!" The Kingsguard roared at the motionless crowd which, despite being far superior in numbers, shied away from the raging knight.

Denys took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure.

"Get the maester." He said loudly to no-one in particular.

Like statues that had suddenly come alive, his men snapped out of their reverie and withdrew from the knight and the king. In a blink of an eye, the yard turned into a hectic anthill, as everyone tried to appear innocently busy with their own endeavours.

Denys felt a hand brushing against his own.

"What are you going to do now?" Serala whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear.

Denys had no answer to that question. However, he knew what he _wasn't_ going to do. With the king wounded, perhaps fatally, he couldn't proceed with his plan to force Tywin Lannister to agree to his demands. If he was honest with himself, he was surprised that the Hand hadn't appeared in Duskendale himself, at the head of an army. Perhaps the Lion's teeth had blunted over the years; at last, it had come as a great surprise to Denys when his first act of defiance had gone just about unanswered.

As soon as he arrived, the maester insisted urgently that the king, who had ceased to show any signs of consciousness, be carried to his chambers. As he was taken off his horse, Denys saw an arrow stretching out of the right side of the king's abdomen. Due to Aerys' black attire, he couldn't guess how much blood the king had lost, but his utter unresponsiveness was indication enough. Denys followed the maester and the five men who had arrived with the king and were now carrying him, to the maester's chambers, warily observing the specks that smeared the floors of his castle. The amount of blood dripping from the king's wound was alarming; Denys swallowed hard, feeling his heard thundering inside his chest.

 _If the king died there…_

"What's happened?" He demanded of the Kingsguard as soon as the king was laid onto a bed and his life came to rest in the maester's hands.

The man ignored him, his eyes fixed on his unmoving sovereign. He stood unnaturally still, as if he was hanging between life and death alongside the king.

Still, Denys refused to be ignored. There was nothing either he or the Kingsguard could do for the king, but unlike the knight, he had other worries on his mind.

"What's happened?" He repeated, going so far as to grab the man's forearm.

"Bandits." The Kingsguard snarled, finally having turned to look at him. He yanked his arm out of Denys' grasp, glaring at the lord of Duskendale as if he was to be blamed for what had happened. "We were attacked on the road – we barely managed to break through their ranks with the king and…" He made a sudden pause, then the intensity of his gaze increased. "Has anyone arrived to the castle after us?"

Denys couldn't guess what the man was actually asking.

"I don't know." He shrugged his shoulders. "I could go see if some of your men…"

"Cersei Lannister was riding with us." The knight interrupted him curtly, to Denys' indignation. How dare a mere knight (even if he was one of the Kingsguard) speak to him like that, as if he was a peasant? "She managed to escape the outlaws as well, but for the king's sake, I couldn't wait for her."

Shaking off his exasperation, Denys began to listen to what the knight was telling him and found himself stunned.

"The Hand's daughter?" He asked, unable to rein in his bafflement. "What…Why was she riding with you?"

"The king invited her to join him on this journey." The Kingsguard explained curtly, impatience radiating off him like heat off the sun. "We need to find her."

Denys nodded in agreement, but he felt nothing similar to the knight's worry for the lady's well-being. He was pondering the options that would present themselves once she was in his custody. It wouldn't matter whether the king died from his wound if Denys had Tywin's daughter in his clutches. The Hand would have to yield to his demands if he wanted his daughter – the future queen, as rumours claimed – to remain unharmed. If Denys played his cards right, Duskendale could once again come to rival King's Landing in trade, or maybe even rise above it. It could become what it had been back in the days before Aegon's conquest. As the lord who had raised it so high, _he_ would be remembered decades from now by every soul in the town.

"I will go see if she has arrived to the town." He spoke reassuringly. "If not, I will send my men to find her. She cannot be far."

The knight nodded solemnly, but said nothing. His brown eyes returned to where the king lay, still as unmoving as a corpse. Behind his back, Denys leaned closer to one of his men.

"Send for me if the king's state changes." He whispered, not specifying the nature of the change. Whatever happened in that room, he needed Cersei Lannister to secure his position in the battle of wills against the Hand.

The man nodded without a word. Satisfied, Denys left the room.

Unfortunately, when he returned to the yard, there was no sight of a girl resembling Lady Lannister. Nobody had seen her, neither within the castle nor within town. Careful not to betray his frustration with that inconvenience, Denys commanded a dozen men to set out and locate her. She was even more precious as leverage than the (dying) king; it was of the greatest importance that she was brought to him.

"Am I to understand that we are not starting a rebellion today?" His wife appeared next to him suddenly, her Myrish accent colouring her words.

It was a habit of hers to approach him so quietly he was startled by her arrival. One would think he would have got used to it after years of marriage, but he never quite had. Still, her presence had a soothing effect on him, enough that he could forgive the soundlessness of her steps.

"Not until the king's fate is clear and we have Tywin Lannister's daughter in our hands." He replied softly, taking her hand into his and placing a tender kiss onto her knuckles. "I trust your will use your feminine touch to make her compliant once the men bring her here."

A loving smile curled her full lips. She was like a rose, his wife; beautiful and yet able to sting.

"As my lord commands." She returned his gesture by kissing his cheek and then returned to her occupations.

Denys felt a grin escaping him. Gods had truly been on his side the day he'd married Serala.

* * *

"Maya!" Her mother called out from their porch a few houses down the street. "Dinner is ready!"

The black-haired girl rolled her eyes at her friends, who shrugged their shoulders, but otherwise showed no compassion for predicament. She wanted to stay and play with them, but dinner was kind of a special occasion in their home. Mama insisted they all gathered at the table for dinner and even Papa obeyed. He had once told Maya Mama hadn't dined with her family when she'd been young and that was why she cherished their evening meals and why Maya should respect her wishes. Just seeing them all together like a family made Mama happy, he had explained, even when no words were spoken or there was little to be eaten.

 _Her Papa left first and soon afterwards so did her Mama._ He hadn't mentioned where they had gone to or why they hadn't taken Mama with them. _She was all alone until she found us. Coming home to dinner is a small price to pay for her happiness, isn't it?_

Maya didn't want Mama to feel alone, so she waved her friends goodbye and ran towards her house. As she stumbled forward, struggling to keep her balance on the slippery ground that was covered in a thin layer of mud, she saw two horses riding towards her. She moved aside to let them pass, pressing her back against the wooden wall of the neighbouring house, but to her surprise, they stopped right in front of her.

"Is there an inn around here somewhere?" A man in crimson clothes asked as he stared down at her from his horse. His hair that was both black and grey and his eyes looked too small for his face. Despite all that, he didn't seem threatening so Maya mustered the courage to try to answer. She was many things, but shy she was not.

"Um…"

Unfortunately, she didn't know what an inn was and was quite sure they didn't have one in their village. Someone would have mentioned it if they did.

"Maya!"

"Mama." The girl smiled in relief; if anyone could point the strangers in the right direction, it was Mama – or Papa. They knew everything. "They are looking for an inn." She announced, gesturing at the two riders.

Mama approached them and put her arm around Maya's shoulders.

"There's no inn here." She said calmly, looking at the man. "But Duskendale is not far. If you hurry, you will make it there soon. I'm sure you will find suitable accommodation in the town."

The man glanced at the other rider. So absorbed in their conversation with the man, Maya hadn't even noticed the other rider was a woman – a girl. A girl with a long golden dress and a cloak with a hood and with shoes that wouldn't last half a day in the mud that never quite left fishing villages at the shores of the sea.

"Isn't there any place here where we can stay the night and eat something?" The girl, most of her head hidden in a hood, asked Mama with a note of impatience to her voice. "We can pay as much gold as necessary."

Mama's nails ran into Maya's shoulder almost painfully. She didn't answer.

"We've been riding for a long time and we really need to rest." The man interjected, as if he'd sensed Mama's uneasiness. His voice and his face seemed honest to Maya. "Can you help us?"

Maya raised her head to look at Mama, but Mama didn't look back at her. She stood still like a rock, biting her lip, thinking. Her eyes skipped from the man to the girl and back and then she sighed.

"Come." She waved her hand at the riders to follow her and Maya to their house. Maya felt a light push on her back, beckoning her to hurry forward. "Go tell your father we will have guests at dinner." Mama said softly.

Maya found Papa already seated at the table, trying to get her younger brother to eat the soup. Ronnel was frowning in discontent, the bridge of his nose filled with lines, but he didn't dare let out a single cry. Crying wasn't a trick that worked on Papa.

"We will have guests at dinner." She told Papa seriously as she seated herself on Ronnel's left, as if on the inside she wasn't brisling with excitement.

"Who?" He responded after a few moments. His eyes, rather than on her, rested on Ronnel, glaring at him warningly. Her brother reluctantly put a spoon into his mouth, his frown deepening as he swallowed.

"Alyn." Mama entered the room before Maya could answer, with the two strangers at her heel. "This is Robin and his niece Joanna. They will stay for the night."

The girl – Joanna – had removed her hood. Maya had never seen a more beautiful girl in her life. Her eyes were as green as grass, her skin pale as the moon. Locks of her hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall the colour of sunrays. It was hard to tell where her hair ended and her dress began. Where could one find such beautiful clothes?

"Are you a princess?" She asked as Joanna seated herself across from her. When people in her village thought a girl really, _really_ pretty, they claimed she was as beautiful as any lady or even a princess.

The girl paused briefly, as if caught by surprise, but then smiled amicably and shook her head.

"No, I am not."

Maya swallowed her disappointment down along with a mouthful of soup.

"You are pretty as any princess, though." She felt the need to point out. Girls in their village that people called beautiful were plain and ugly compared to Joanna. And the prettiest girl in the world – for she surely had to be – was staying in Maya's home. She felt proud.

"Thank you." Joanna's smile widened, making her (unbelievably so) even prettier.

Maya took her words as permission to continue asking questions (though she probably wouldn't have been able to restrain her curiosity anyway).

"How old are you?"

"Maya." Mother warned as she handed Joanna a bowl of soup and a spoon. Her eyes narrowed at her daughter briefly, but then turned to their guest with an almost apologetic look flashing in them. "It's not much, but it's all we have."

Joanna glanced at the bowl, wrinkling her nose as if she wasn't used to the smell of fish. Still, when she turned to Mama, she nodded gratefully.

"Thank you."

Mama nodded and took the bowl from Ronnel, who had been waging his own private war with the soup.

"Off to bed." She told him. Usually she didn't let him leave the table until all the food was in his belly, but tonight she was inclined to make an exception because of their guests.

Maya's little brother didn't have to be told twice. He was gone from their sight in a heartbeat.

Mama ate the soup Ronnel had left and then filled the bowl with what was left of the soup for their other guest. The man accepted it with an appreciative nod and seated himself in Ronnel's place. The two guests hadn't spoken until their bowls were empty; under Mama's scrutinizing gaze, Maya had been biting her lip to keep the words locked inside her mouth for what seemed like _ages_.

"Do you have a brother or a sister?" She asked Joanna as soon as the other girl put the spoon down.

Green eyes widened in surprise once again. This time, the other girl didn't smile.

"I…" She cleared her throat, her eyes wandering away from Maya. "I have two brothers."

The two boys were so lucky because they had Joanna for a sister, Maya thought. If Joanna was _her_ sister, perhaps she would allow her to borrow some of her clothes or braid her hair, like Maya had seen older daughters in the village do for their younger sisters. The fantasy was so heart-warming it was only the desire to learn more that made Maya unwillingly snap out of it. She had always dreamed of having an older sister, but Mama had said that couldn't happen and that _she_ was the big sister. In Maya's opinion, that was so unfair.

"Are they older or younger than you?" She asked hopefully.

Corners of Joanna's lips slightly curled upward.

"Younger – both of them."

So they were both eldest sisters. A grin escaped Maya's lips at the realization she had something in common with the beautiful girl.

"And how old are you?" She repeated her previous question.

"I am one-and-ten." Joanna replied.

"I am five." Maya said, even though nobody had asked her. "And Ronnel is two."

"Maya, enough." Mama said strictly before she could ask more questions. "Our guests are surely tired."

"Where will they sleep?" Papa made his presence known for the first time since the guests had entered their house. His eyes were locked on Mama's, an opportunity Maya could simply not waste.

"You can sleep in my bed!" She said to Joanna excitedly. "We'll fit." She got to her feet in a heartbeat and pulled the older girl by the hand. "Come, I'll show you!"

Barely restraining herself from running, she led Joanna to the other room. Two beds could be seen in the dying light that came from outside, a larger one for Mama, Papa and Ronnel and a smaller one for Maya.

"There is enough room for both of us." She lay down on her side, her back pressed against the wall. There was just enough room left for Joanna to sleep next to her.

The golden-haired girl eyed her sceptically.

"There is barely enough room for _one_ of us."

"We'll fit." Maya said earnestly, trying to move as close to the wall as possible so Joanna would find her claim more convincing. "Lay down and you'll see."

After another few moments of assessing the size of the bed in silence, Joanna slid beneath the thin blanket and lay down next to Maya. Being so close to the other girl allowed Maya to breathe in her scent. It was unlike anything she had ever smelled, but she liked it very much.

"See?" She giggled and laid her head on Joanna's shoulder. "I knew we would fit."

"Barely." Joanna breathed out after a few moments of silence.

Maya tucked her arms between herself and Joanna and closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth radiating from the older girl. She was like the summer itself, golden and warm and beautiful.

"I've always wanted a sister." She murmured quietly, wondering if Joanna had ever wished for the same.

For a few heartbeats, silence lingered between them.

"But I am not your sister." Joanna whispered.

"I know." Maya nodded, her cheek rubbing against Joanna's arm. "But we can pretend you are. Just tonight."

No answer came from Joanna. Maya was just about to raise her head to see if the other girl had fallen asleep when Joanna sat up straight and took off her cloak. She covered them both with it and tucked Maya in gently, like Mama did. When she lay down again, Maya felt the material of Joanna's golden dress brush against her hands. She had never touched anything softer in her life.

"Goodnight, Maya." The older girl whispered as she closed her eyes.

With a smile brighter than the sun playing on her lips, Maya thought she had never felt warmer or happier in her life.

"Goodnight, Joanna." _Goodnight,_ _ **sister**_ _._

* * *

They came for the girl and her companion, just like she had known they would.

If they had left immediately after they'd eaten (she should have insisted on it, but there was only as much power she held over the situation), perhaps they would not have been found. The sleep of their hosts would have surely been disturbed by soldiers looking for Lady Lannister, but at least the little girl wouldn't be crying her eyes out as she watched the golden-haired girl being taken away.

"Why are you letting them take Joanna, Mama?"

They had no choice. They wouldn't risk their lives and lives of their children for strangers, even highborn ones. It was a reasonable decision.

But not in the eyes of a child.

The little girl's tears and cries would make even the coldest of hearts ache.

"Joanna!" She screamed helplessly, as if her skin was being peeled off her body. She had warmed up to the older girl so quickly, as if she were her own long-lost sister. "Joanna!"

Her pleads went unanswered. The men dressed in yellow and black didn't turn around, neither did the golden-haired girl.

 _Do not resist._ She advised silently.

She did not.

After the initial shock had worn off, she followed her escorts (or rather – captors) in silence, her features betraying none of her thoughts. Her emotionless mask was admirably well crafted for someone so young. They left the room without a word, leaving the frightened family trembling in worry for all of their fates – with good reason. Gods knew what awaited them in Duskendale.

The golden cloak remained lying forgotten on the empty bed.

* * *

"Milord?"

One word from a servant (even if it was intended for her husband) was enough to tear Lady Serala off from her light sleep. The moon was still ruling the black sky outside when she opened her eyes. She sat up straight before the servant had a chance to call for her husband past the sound of his snoring again, not bothering to wrap the silken sheets around her body. It was the servant's duty to look away, not hers to hide.

"What is it?" She asked quietly. There were only two matters that couldn't wait until morning.

"Milady." The servant bowed his head immediately. He kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke to her, as he should. "Lady Lannister has just been brought to Dun Fort. Lord Darklyn ordered he was to be told…"

"Take her to the drawing room." She interrupted him sternly before his blabbing could wake up her husband. There was no need to disturb Denys' rest; soothing a certain young lady and any fears she might have was her task anyway. "I will join her shortly."

The servant didn't move. "But Lord…"

" _Take her to the drawing room._ "

She glared at his back until he withdrew, darkly pleased about the cutting coldness of her voice, then sought out her mantle in the dark and wrapped herself in it. She had been bearing the tittle of Lady Darklyn for years and yet men, even mere servants, still dared question her authority. Luckily, Denys was young, easily impressed and absolutely smitten by her, his eastern rose with dark red hair and green eyes; she had made sure of that. She had managed to use his infatuation with her to escape her father's home, a prison where she and her three sisters had been regarded as only slightly more important than servants. Unfortunately, her husband's home had turned out to be just another cage, but here she had one advantage she hadn't had in her home in Myr; the (insufficiently absolute) power over its lord. He was also a slave to cravings other than her; gold, glory. She had attempted to take a stand between him and his mistresses once, but in a true male fashion, had ignored every word which he didn't want to hear.

Therefore, she only told him what he wanted to hear (or what she made him think he wanted to hear). His love for her grew by the word. It made her life easier.

When she arrived to the drawing room, illuminated by half a dozen candles, the girl was already there, sitting in one of the chairs close to the head of the long table. She raised her head when she heard Serala approaching, her eyes widening in surprise as she observed her unexpected host. It took her a moment to recover from the disbelief, but then she stood up and curtsied gracefully, despite the lack of sleep that was surely taking its toll on her.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, Lady Lannister." Serala seated herself on the girl's right. "Please, sit. You must be tired."

The girl seated herself again, her green eyes never leaving Serala's, as if assessing her. Serala allowed her to drink in the sight of her to her heart's satisfaction. No man or woman had ever managed to see past her mask; the idea that a girl of one-and-ten could accomplish such a feat was just ludicrous enough to make her smile.

"Are you hungry?" She asked courteously after a few moments of silence. "I can have a servant fetch you something to eat from the kitchens."

"No, thank you." Lady Cersei shook her head. "I'm just tired." Her eyes narrowed at Serala, just a little. "Your men insisted they couldn't wait until morning to escort us to Duskendale."

"We were worried about you." Serala displayed her best imitation of a motherly look. "Ser Gwayne told us you'd managed to escape the bandits with him and the king. Why didn't you come straight to Duskendale?"

Beneath her mask, she was carefully hiding her own suspicions of the girl's delayed arrival to Duskendale. According to what she had heard of Tywin Lannister, he wasn't a man who would have allowed his only daughter – who could one day become the Crown prince's wife – to be left at mercy of a lord whose intentions weren't clear. Was it possible that the girl's companion had received orders to return her to King's Landing if – or _when_ – the opportunity arose? Was it possible the outlaws were actually the Hand's men?

She wondered if Denys had already reached that conclusion.

"My horse was limping." The girl answered without a beat. Either she was telling the truth or was a more skilful layer than any girl of her age ought to be. "We were worried the bandits would catch up to us before we managed to reach Duskendale."

"I see." Serala nodded impassively. "Did you have trouble coming here?"

Her little word-trap ensnared no prey. It seemed the girl was indeed telling the truth.

"No. It must have just been tired from running from the bandits before." The girl shrugged her shoulders lethargically, but then stiffened nimbly. "The king was wounded." She said suddenly, her eyes widening. "Is he alright?"

Serala took her hand into her own in a soothing gesture. The girl's skin was cold against hers; Serala made a mental note to have servants bring extra blankets to Lady Lannister's room.

"Do not worry yourself over that tonight." She said reassuringly, squeezing the girl's hand gently. "You need sleep. We shall talk again in the morning, when you are rested and fed."

"But…"

"You are tired, Lady Lannister, I can see it in your eyes." Serala pulled the golden-haired girl to her feet gently. "The world will still be here tomorrow." _Even if the king perhaps won't._

Too tired to continue protesting, the girl closed her mouth and silently followed Serala to the chamber that had been made ready for her, only a few doors down the corridor from the one that led to Serala's chambers. Two guards stood in front of it, bowing their heads not too low when the two women approached them. Serala pushed the door open and gestured to Lady Cersei to enter.

"Rest now." She said softly. "You are safe here."

The girl walked into the room sluggishly, as if she was carrying an invisible burden on her shoulders, but then turned on her heel.

"Thank you for your hospitality." She nodded her appreciations courteously. She was clearly exhausted; Serala admired her ability to uphold her manners in her state. Judging by their flawlessness, they were not so different from Serala's own masks, only far more innocent.

"If you need anything, you only have to ask." She said, remembering extra blankets. She would send a servant to fetch them. "My chambers are down the corridor, fourth door to your left."

The girl nodded once more. "Goodnight, Lady Darklyn."

Sweet, innocent lion cub. Serala pitied her.

"Goodnight, Lady Lannister."


	7. VII

**Just wanted to thank all guest reviewers who left a review, since I can't reply to you any other way. I'm glad you like the story and I hope it manages to keep you interested (of course, I hope for the same with all of you who are reading this).  
**

 **Without further delay, on with the story :)**

It was so pleasant and warm. It was soft and tender. Like a touch of a gentle hand, like a breath on her face just before a kiss.

She smiled and the warmth increased. His green eyes were sparkling, his smile the reflection of her own.

 _Jaime._

How she had longed to see him, her twin, her other half. How she had longed to hold him and to be held by him. He must know how much she had missed him – that was why he was here now. So she could _see him_ , _touch him_ , _breathe him in_.

Cersei opened her eyes and closed them just as fast, blinded by the white sunlight.

As she explored her surroundings, all her hands found were silken sheets and an empty bed. The sight of her twin's face flickered behind her eyelids, only to drift away into the darkness, leaving her with bitter taste of disappointment in her mouth. In her chest, an ache cold and sharp like ice blossomed like a rose yearning for a kiss of the sun, only to realize it was still winter.

Jaime was not there. He was in Casterly Rock, on the other side of the Seven Kingdoms. He had not come to see her, to apologize for his cold farewell, to tell her he still loved her.

( _She knew he still loved her. He_ _ **couldn't**_ _hate her._ )

Why was she even thinking of Jaime in this moment of bliss and content? She should be thinking of Rhaegar, her beautiful silver prince, her future husband. It was his touch she should be craving, his touch on her skin she should be imagining. His fingers intertwined with the locks of her hair, his warm breath on her lips.

His lips on her lips.

The first time, she imagined, he would kiss her tenderly. Softly, like summer's breeze. Sweet, like golden honey on her tongue.

 _You and I have much to accomplish together, Cersei Lannister._

The second time…

Her daydream was interrupted by the sound of door opening. Blinded by the sunlight, she couldn't see who was entering the room without turning on her side and revealing she was awake. However, she _could_ silently curse them for tearing her away from her musings about kissing Rhaegar and she didn't hesitate to do so.

"Milady." An older woman curtsied swiftly when Cersei straightened up in the bed.

Cersei had never seen her in her life. She forced her still drowsy mind to think and remembered where she was.

"What time is it?" She asked the woman – probably a maid – feeling she would be _way_ late to a Council meeting if today was just another ordinary day in King's Landing.

"It's midday soon, milady." The grey-haired woman replied. "Lady Darklyn has sent me to check on you and, if you are awake, to help you change."

Cersei realized she had fallen asleep last night in her golden dress. Its edges were dirty and it smelled of fish. And her cloak was…nowhere to be seen.

The face of the little girl – _Maya_ – came to her mind. She pushed it back to the darkness immediately, not wanting to dwell on…well, _anything_ that had happened within the walls of that small wooden house. If Father knew she had shared a meal ( _as flavourless as it had been – it was a good thing there hadn't been much soup to eat because she wouldn't have been able to stomach it_ ) with commoners like they were her equals and slept in the same bed with a dirty peasant girl, he would probably denounce her. If he knew that, even for the briefest of moments, she had felt happy and serene there, he would proclaim her mad and have her confined. No, it was for the best she forgot everything about the previous evening, like it had never happened.

( _She had lost the cloak somewhere on the road._ )

The maid helped her change into a simpler olive dress, promising the golden dress would soon be returned to her, as impeccable as on the day Cersei had first worn it. Cersei glanced down her new clothes, scowling in dissatisfaction as she assessed the dress critically. She would have to be careful not to stumble over the skirts or stain the sleeves while eating. Couldn't they have at least found her a dress that suited her? Was there not a single girl of her age and constitution in all of Duskendale?

"If you would follow me, milady." The maid said, interrupting her frustrated inner monologue.

For a moment, she considered saying she didn't feel well and sending the maid away. Having been rudely robbed of her sleep the previous night (and months before), she found the temptation to stay abed all day nearly irresistible, despite the sunlight and cerulean sky calling out to her from outside.

( _To Hells with Father and Small Council meetings and Rhaegar and swordfighting lessons,_ she remembered thinking at some point as she fell asleep, _never had anything felt as gods' blessings as much as a pillow beneath her head and a thick blanket wrapped around her, keeping her warm._ )

However, loud protests coming from her stomach put an end to that idea. She was absolutely _starving_.

Luckily, when the maid brought her to the drawing room, the table was already filled with food. Overwhelmed with scent of meat and bread and fruit, Cersei felt her mouth filling with saliva, but she managed to restrain her hunger enough to lower herself into a curtsy before her hosts.

"Lady Lannister, please, join us." Lady Darklyn, dressed in a green gown that brought out her emerald eyes, greeted her with a smile, gesturing to her to sit at her right.

Cersei seated herself at the spot the lady of the castle had intended for her. Her hands itched with desire to grab anything edible in her line of vision and stuff it in her mouth. Fortunately, years and years of having manners carved into her did their job splendidly and prevented her from embarrassing herself by acting like a starved animal.

"This is my husband." Lady Darklyn placed a hand on the shoulder of the man who was sitting on her left affectionately. "Lord Denys of House Darklyn. Dear, this is Lady Cersei of House Lannister."

"But of course." The man with dark brown hair and beard of the same colour, dressed in yellow and black of his House, nodded his greeting. If not for the beard, he would seem not much older than Rhaegar. Perhaps that was its purpose, to make him look more mature and hide his youth. "I'm sure Serala welcomed you properly last night. I'm sorry I couldn't be there."

 _Yes, I am sure one has many unavoidable duties in the dead of the night._

Cersei didn't particularly care what Lord Darklyn had been doing last night instead of welcoming her. She could nearly feel her stomach shrinking in mere need to appear fuller.

"Did you sleep well?" Lady Darklyn continued with pleasantries, blissfully unaware of Cersei's irritation.

"Yes, thank you." She nodded stiffly, her mask of politeness living off the last remains of her patience. _I just want to_ _ **eat**_ _._ "I apologize for missing the morning meal."

"Nonsense." The red-haired woman shook her head good-naturedly. "You had a long day yesterday. It's only proper that we let you rest." She passed a basket filled with pieces of bread over to Cersei. "Please, eat. You must be famished."

 _Thank the gods._

They ate in silence, to Cersei's great relief. She had eaten twice as much as she usually did; it was easy to imagine her belly had become a bit swollen beneath the fabric of the olive dress. She couldn't bring herself to care at that moment; all that mattered was that her hunger had been quenched.

( _She had probably eaten more food than Maya ate in one entire day._

 _ **Stop it. She's just a peasant girl. She's not important. Forget about her. Just because she has called me a princess…**_ )

"The king." She remembered suddenly, her eyes seeking out Lady Darklyn's. "How is he?"

Lord and Lady of Duskendale exchanged unreadable gazes. Then green met green again.

"He is not well, I'm afraid." Lady Darklyn sighed deeply, her voice barely louder than a whisper, as if any noise could tip the balance the king's life was hanging in in an unfavourable direction. "He hasn't woken up since he was brought here. His life is in the hands of the gods."

Her gaze falling to her lap, Cersei did her best to appear properly worried. Beneath the façade, she hoped the Stranger wouldn't see fit to release the king from his cold grasp. If Aerys _did_ die, she wouldn't be shedding many tears. She hadn't forgotten nor forgiven his insults. If he died, there would be nothing standing between her and Rhaegar anymore. If he died, she would be queen.

"I would like to write to my father." She raised her head to look at the Darklyns again.

The red and the brown pair of eyebrows arched above green and brown eyes.

"Just to let him know I am safe." She clarified with a slight shrug of her shoulders. Father's fears seemed to be unfounded; nobody in Duskendale had shown any intention of harming her. He would be glad to hear that––and also… "And…about the king's state."

To her surprise, Lord Darklyn's expression softened first.

"Of course." He nodded, summoning a servant to his side with a wave of hand. "Bring some parchment, quills and ink."

The servant left and returned within a few quiet minutes. He put parchment, ink and two quills on the table in front of Cersei and withdrew soundlessly. She took one of the quills into her hand, but before she could douse it in ink, Lord Darklyn spoke again, drawing her attention.

"I'm sure your father will insist that you return to King's Landing." He was fiddling with the empty goblet for a moment, then locked eyes with her. "Unfortunately, I don't have enough men to send them to accompany you at the moment."

Cersei swallowed down her disappointment bitterly. She wanted to return to Rhaegar as soon as possible; they were never supposed to have been separated. His last words to her had struck a chord deep within her that stirred whenever she thought of him. She wanted to know what he had meant by that, what dreams he dreamed of their future. She _needed_ to know.

On the other hand, her prolonged staying in Duskendale might allow her to make up for all the long hours of sleep she had missed in King's Landing. Nobody here would mind if she slept until midday every day. She could rest and gather her strength so she would be able to pick up and keep carrying the burden of Rhaegar and Father's expectations on her shoulders when she returned to the capital. She could accomplish nothing if she was exhausted all the time.

"And I can't let you leave unprotected, not with those bandits roaming the roads." Lord Darklyn said firmly, snapping her out of her musings. "So, tell your father that he will have to come for you here."

She nodded in agreement to his suggestion, though she doubted Father would come in person just to accompany her back to the capital. He had many men at his disposal that could carry out the task; frankly, Cersei would be _shocked_ if she witnessed him abandoning his duties as the Hand on her behalf.

"And since he will be coming, tell him to bring what I have asked of him in my letters."

Her eyebrows rose inquiringly before she could restrain them. To her relief, Lord Darklyn smiled kindly, not finding her curiosity offensive.

"Write it just as I've said it. He will know what I'm speaking of."

Cersei glanced at Lady Darklyn. Her expression hadn't changed, but instead of Cersei, her frown was now directed at her husband. Lord Darklyn didn't seem to notice it; he stared at Cersei expectantly, with a gleam in his brown eyes that Cersei couldn't define, but found rather unsettling nonetheless. What was it he wanted from Father? Why not write to him and ask him for it personally?

 _He had_ , she realized suddenly, _and Father had denied him._

But if Father denied him again? _While_ she was in Duskendale? What then?

' _You are a Lannister. You are my daughter. If anyone even thinks of causing you harm, remind them they will face all the power and rage of House Lannister and pay for every insult tenfold. Do you understand?'_

 _Not yet._

She nodded, to herself rather than at the Darklyns, and started writing, trying to ignore the sound of her wild heartbeat roaring in her ears. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly, making her elegant handwriting look more similar to Jaime's.

 _If he was in my place, he would not be afraid._ The thought of her twin reassured her mind and hand. Part of her was irked that he still held such power over her, but another – much bigger – part was grateful for it. _I am just as brave as he is. I will not be afraid._

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when the door of the room where highborn ladies were sewing and occasionally conversing swung open with a force of a wild storm, making the women gasp in shock. Startled by the sound, Cersei nearly pricked her forefinger on the needle; luckily, the sharp tip landed on her nail instead on the skin. She raised her head and saw a young man had burst in, his breathing heavy as though he had just arrived from King's Landing on foot. His sudden appearance and the rude manner of his entrance drew a few displeased huffs from present ladies, but he was too busy trying to catch his breath to pay any attention to them.

"Milady." He gasped, bowing his head in Lady Darklyn's direction.

From the corner of her eye, Cersei noticed the red-haired woman had stiffened, the amiable posture she always displayed in Cersei's presence gone. She set her needlework aside, giving the young man her undivided attention.

"What is it?" Her voice wasn't any louder than usually, but the change in her tone made Cersei squirm uneasily.

Who was this man? What news did Lady Darklyn think he was bringing?

"It's the king, milady." The man mumbled in between breaths, but everyone in the room understood him perfectly. His eyes met Cersei's for a heartbeat, then he bowed his head again. "The king has asked for _her_."

The way he stressed the last word sent chills down Cersei's spine. She ran her nails into the needlepoint, trying to prevent her hands from shaking. Her breathing grew even more uneven than the messenger's. The king, it seemed, had only narrowly escaped the embrace of death and his first desire was to see _her_?

"Lady Lannister." A voice called out from far, _far_ away.

A hand squeezed her forearm gently. She raised her head and saw Lady Darklyn towering above her with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Come." The red-haired woman helped her to her feet, taking the needlepoint from her numb fingers. "We'd best not keep the king waiting."

Cersei nodded lethargically, barely feeling her legs as they carried her forward. She followed Lady Darklyn and the messenger through the corridors which would be silent if not for the frantic thundering of her heart. It made her chest, her stomach, her head ache, as though she had more than one. How she remained on her feet was a mystery she couldn't solve. She dreaded their final destination, but could find no strength to run in the other direction, as if gods themselves were dragging her forward. The king had _surely_ come to the conclusion she was to be blamed for what had happened in the woods. Her very existence seemed to vex him.

Perhaps she was about to finally learn _why_.

"Come, quickly." Lord Darklyn all but ushered her into the room; as stunned as she was, she couldn't even find it in herself to protest. "She is here, Your Grace."

Cersei swallowed a lump down her throat, struggling to draw breath as she locked eyes with the king. His skin was as pale as his hair, shiny with sweat. His eyes were only half-open, as if the weak light in the room was too much to bear for his weakened orbs. He looked…almost like Mother had, the last time Cersei had seen her alive.

"Come closer." His voice was hoarse, but not stern. To Cersei's ears, it sounded almost like he was… _begging_.

"Go." A hand pushed her forward lightly.

Somewhere deep down, a part of her insisted she was to glare at the insolent soul who had dared take such liberties, to make them think twice before they tried to lay a hand on her in that manner again. However, it was so buried beneath so many layers of fear and panic she barely heard it. She ran her nails into her palms, trying to pacify her thoughts by giving her mind something else to focus on.

She reached the bed soon, in what felt like a few lifetimes.

"Your Grace." She murmured, curtsying stiffly.

He let out a choking sound, making her jump.

"Somehow, you sound more respectful when you say my given name."

A few moments passed in silence before she managed to pull herself together enough to draw a breath. As her lungs filled with air, she was able to think more clearly – only to find herself confused, by his words, by his light tone and by the strange sound he had made.

Could it have been laughter?

"Say it, darling. Say my name." She couldn't tell whether he pleaded or commanded. "I allow you. Only _you_."

Her knees felt as if about to give way at any moment. Her lips quivered, unable to shape that one single word. How could she say his name? It would imply some kind of familiarity between them, closeness, intimacy.

His hand reached out weakly, falling onto the bed only a moment later. "Joanna?"

That word – that _name_ – _shattered_ her. Everything within fell apart like glass.

Suddenly, she felt detached from her own body and before she knew it, she was stumbling forward. It was the bed that saved her from the fall.

But not from the gaze of those violet eyes, which were fixed on her as though nothing else existed in this world.

By the Seven, he thought she was _her mother_.

"Joanna?" His hand found hers before she managed to pull away.

Words were failing her. Her own mind was failing her.

His fingers began caressing her skin gently, his lips curving into an absent smile as he lowered his gaze on her hand trapped between his.

"I remember the first time I saw you." His voice came out in weak whispers; without meaning to, she leaned closer so she could hear him. "It was my father's coronation; do you remember?"

She didn't remember; she _couldn't_ remember. Yet she found herself nodding. She couldn't tell if he even saw it.

"You were wearing gold. Everything about you was gold, even your sparkling eyes." He continued longingly, as if he could see the sight from the distant past written on the palm of Cersei's hand. "Everyone was watching my father being crowned King, but _I_ couldn't separate my eyes from _you_."

He let another one of those choking sounds that might be a chuckle, as if laughing at some joke Cersei didn't understand.

"And our nights together? Do you remember _them_ , Joanna?"

Shocked, she nearly yanked her hand out of his grasp, gasping at his blatant lies. Mother had always been faithful to Father. There had never _been_ _**their**_ nights together. How dare he imply her mother had shared his bed?

"Tywin was too busy pretending to be king to notice what we were doing right under his nose." He went on with _a smile_ , unaware of the turmoil he was causing within her. "It was his mistake to leave you to fend for yourself. If you were my wife, I wouldn't leave your chambers for a single hour."

 _Lies, lies, lies!_ Her mind screamed the words her mouth refused to shape. She wanted to claw his eyes, rip his tongue from his throat so he would stop saying such disgusting things about Mother. He was _lying_ , the sick, insolent, mad excuse for a man!

He didn't look at her face, remaining blind to her rage. Gently, he intertwined his fingers with hers, watching their coupled hands in eerie fascination.

"Sometimes I would catch myself thinking your twins were mine, even if they didn't look like me." His long pale fingers seemed so long compared to hers, but he saw nothing peculiar about the sight. "Their hair just a shade lighter than pure gold, their eyes flashing with fire only dragon blood can ignite. I would have a daughter to wed to Rhaegar and an heir to spare."

She froze.

He…this had to be just blabbering of a man who had recently seen the face of death – and other things – in the darkness. It _had to_. This could _not_ be real. He had made it all up – or dreamed it. Or he was just plain mad. She didn't really care which it was, as long as his illusions _remained_ illusions.

"More than Rhaella gave me." He said bitterly – _genuinely_ bitterly. "If only I'd married you, Joanna. We could have ruled this kingdom with golden fire and crimson blood."

She could not take this anymore. She had to leave, before…Before his madness infected her and she lost her mind too.

"May I…" With much difficulty, she cleared her throat. "May I leave, Your Grace?"

His face scowled as he raised his eyes to hers. For a moment, she was sure her voice had given her away and he had realized she wasn't Mother. To her immense relief, his features relaxed and he smiled again.

"Aerys." He squeezed her hand gently.

She felt she might faint. Invisible hands were wrapped around her throat, blocking her air supply, making black spots dance in her line of vision.

"Aerys." She breathed out softly, her voice the lowest of whispers.

He closed his eyes, as if savouring the nearly inaudible sound. His grasp on her hand relaxed, but he still didn't let her go.

"Only if you promise to return to me." His tone was playful, but his gaze, which once again met hers, was not.

She begged her voice not to betray her.

"Of course, Yo-." She caught herself in the nick of time. "I promise."

Mercifully, he didn't ask her to say his name again. His eyes fell shut, his body becoming utterly still save for the rising and falling of his chest. It allowed her hand to slide out of his without any resistance; she pulled it to her chest as if it were her own long lost child, caressing newly made scars that eyes could not see.

With mere strength of will, she forced her legs to carry her away. Where to, she didn't care. She thought she heard voices, but they could be as much in her mind as the part of the real world. Only one thing mattered now; only one truth she needed confirmed.

 _I am a Lannister. I am a daughter of Tywin and Joanna Lannister. Mother never shared the king's bed. She was faithful to Father. She loved him and he loved her._

 _I am a Lannister. I am a daughter of Tywin and Joanna Lannister…_

* * *

It was a difficult feat to throw Tywin Lannister off his balance.

Acting in anger was befitting of fools. Anger made one act thoughtlessly, rashly, without carefully considering the consequences. Tywin had long since learned to bury his rage beneath the cold barrier made of sensible, calculating thoughts. Those thoughts wrapped around people who crossed him like a spider web, every thread positioned perfectly to capture the prey. Once it was trapped, he could set his fury loose on a helpless victim when it suited him.

It was a fate that awaited all the meaningless, powerless flies that bore the name Darklyn.

He crumpled Cersei's letter in his fist, barely resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. He was alone; even if he allowed himself to unleash his anger, nobody was there to witness his moment of weakness. He _could_ lose control – but he wouldn't. It was behaviour one would expect of a petulant child, not the Hand of the king, not Warden of the West.

Not of Tywin Lannister.

It pained him to admit it, but it was his mistake that had led to this. He should have dealt with the Darklyns earlier, as bland as their disobedience had seemed at its beginning, but there had been matters that demanded his attention more than an overly ambitious lordling that would eventually return to his master's feet with tail between his legs. It _had_ been worth to see Aerys furious because _for once_ _**he**_ had had to deal with matters of the kingdom; also, it took only a few carefully chosen words from Tywin to make the king leave for Duskendale all but defenceless. Unbeknownst to the Darklyns, Aerys' life would have been useless as leverage against Tywin. The whole ordeal could have been brought to such a satisfying end, if his former friend hadn't decided to bring Cersei with him. It could have also ended satisfyingly if Damon Marbrand had been successful in his mission ( _he would deal with his failure later; the man better pray to every deity known to man nobody had recognized him or any of his men during the attempted 'robbery'_ ); the party would have returned to King's Landing with Aerys' dead body and Cersei perfectly safe. Rhaegar would have been crowned King and soon after, there would have been an announcement of his betrothal to Cersei.

Tywin took a deep breath and then exhaled his rage along with air. He needed to think clearly. Enough mistakes had already been made.

Aerys was still alive. Cersei was in Duskendale. The Darklyns held his most precious piece in their grasp and they knew it.

 _Lord Darklyn asks that you bring what he has asked for in his letters with you to Duskendale._

They had dared _blackmail_ him.

He would not yield to their demands; that was certain. He would arrive to their gates as he should have the moment the thought of defiance had crossed their minds – with an army behind his back.

He grabbed a piece of parchment, a quill and ink and started writing a letter to Kevan. Their bannermen were to be gathered and sent to ride for Duskendale without delay; he would meet them there. Jaime and Tyrion were to be left under Genna's care.

He summoned a servant and instructed the letter to be sent to Casterly Rock, then he headed for Rhaegar's chamber. The Crown prince needed to be informed of the new developments. His father was held prisoner, along with the object of his infatuation. It should be motivation enough for him not to hesitate to summon men loyal to House Targaryen. The Darklyns wouldn't stand a chance against their united forces. In the case they decided to barricade themselves within the walls of Duskendale, starvation would soon make their defiance wear off.

( _Hopefully Cersei wouldn't die of the starvation before they got the chance to free her. No, he knew she wouldn't. She was a Lannister and Lannisters were not weak._ )

In front of the prince's room, he was met with violet eyes of Ser Arthur Dayne. The knight was one of rare people whom Tywin respected; not only his skills with sword were unmatched, but he was far from unintelligent and also fiercely loyal. A perfect Kingsguard, if there ever was one.

"My Lord Hand." The man bowed his head without breaking eye-contact.

"I must speak with the prince." Tywin wasn't used to explaining himself, but even he couldn't just burst into the Crown prince's chamber without permission or explanation. "There has been news from Duskendale."

Ser Arthur nodded and knocked lightly on the door, alerting the prince of the visitor. After a few moments of silence, the door opened, revealing the sight of Prince Rhaegar. The Hand and the Kingsguard bowed instantly before their prince, who seemed as if he had just awoken from a deep slumber. His eyes were glazed as he stared at them absently, as if he didn't even see them.

"My prince." Tywin decided to take charge, having no patience to wait for Rhaegar to snap out of his musings on his own. "I've just received word from Duskendale. May I come in?"

Rhaegar's eyes met his. The daydreaming mist in violet orbs vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by sharp attentiveness. The change was uncanny, but Tywin didn't have the time to dwell on it.

The prince withdrew into the room, followed by the Hand.

"You should hear this too, Ser Arthur." He said, turning on his heel to look at the knight.

The Kingsguard entered the room and closed the door. Tywin again turned to the prince, who was watching him in silence, waiting for him to speak first.

Hesitancy wasn't in the nature of Tywin Lannister.

"The king's party was attacked by bandits on the road." He said directly, seeing no point in holding back the blow. "The king was gravely wounded."

The two young men gasped, their breaths caught in their throats. Tywin kept his eyes on Rhaegar, who for a few moments just gazed back at him, speechless.

"Is he… still alive?" His voice was impressively calm.

"His life hangs in the balance." _To Tywin's annoyance._ However, the Hand wasn't known for letting his sentiments show; it was part of what made him so formidable and hard to read.

 _Ask about Cersei. If you are smitten by her as you seem to be, you would want to know she is unharmed._

"Send Grandmaester Pycelle to Duskendale." The prince said in a commanding tone Tywin rarely heard him use – if ever. "Perhaps he will be able to save my father's life."

The continual lack of questions about Cersei's well-being didn't sit well with Tywin. Perhaps the prince wasn't as besotted as it had seemed when he'd demanded that Cersei came to King's Landing. He would have to ask his daughter what foolish thing she might have said or did that could have turned the prince away from her, once she was rescued from Duskendale.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible, my prince." He said firmly, not intimidated in the slightest by the narrowing of the prince's eyes. "You are familiar with the reason why your father has set off for Duskendale?"

The prince nodded without a word.

"The Darklyns now have both your father and my daughter in their grasp." Despite Tywin's mention of Cersei, Rhaegar's expression didn't change. "They believe that whatever they ask of us, we will have no choice but to provide."

Rhaegar's gaze turned thoughtful as stared at the Hand.

"I assume you have no intention of providing them with the charter they desire?"

"If we make an exception in Duskendale, soon every village in Westeros will claim they deserve one too, which will reflect poorly on the royal treasury." Tywin said straightforwardly. "No, yielding to their demands is simply not an option. I hope my prince agrees."

"I do." The prince nodded solemnly. "But that doesn't change the fact my father and your daughter are still in their custody."

Despite the calmness of his voice that belied his young years, it was clear he wasn't sure what to do in this situation. He was asking for advice without actually asking. After having dealt with Aerys' fits for years, Tywin was nearly glad that the man who was next in line for the throne was showing signs of common sense. It would make it harder to manipulate him, but on the other hand, not having to do _all_ the work, even the smallest of trivialities, would be _a relief_.

"We will summon our bannermen and march on Duskendale." He said sternly, leaving out the fact he had already sent word for his own bannermen to be gathered. "If they refuse to surrender peacefully and barricade themselves within the city, we will starve them out. It is a battle they can't win. If they have any wits left, they will hand over the king and my daughter."

Rhaegar exchanged a quick gaze with Ser Arthur, then turned to Tywin again.

"And what if the Darklyns harm the king or your daughter when they see an army marching on their gates?" For a moment, there was a flicker of worry in the prince's eyes. For whom, it was impossible to say.

The answer to that problem rested in the hands of Tywin's inexperienced daughter. If any harm came to her that would make her unsuitable as a bride of the Crown prince, Tywin would ensure his revenge would make Castamere look like child's play. The possibility of merciless retribution was Cersei's only protection; she'd better be aware of that. It was the first real test of her intelligence; it had come earlier than Tywin would have liked, but there was nothing to be done.

"They wouldn't dare." He said with utmost certainty, brushing off his doubts about his daughter's competence. "Shall I start the preparations, my prince?"

After a moment of hesitation, Rhaegar nodded his agreement. Tywin bowed his head and left the room, making a list of what needed to be done in his mind as he strode through the corridors of the Red Keep.

His thoughts kept returning to one question; _would Cersei remember the warning she was to give to the enemies of House Lannister?_


	8. VIII

_Burn them all. Burn them like I have burned. Burn them_ _ **all**_ _._

The sea of darkness gently washed over the soul's shores and extinguished the flames of madness.

* * *

"You are to be with the girl at all times." Denys spoke hoarsely after a long silence, his eyes still on the motionless body. They were alone in the room; the maester had been sent away to rest now that there was nothing to be done. "She is the only advantage we have now."

The early summer night wasn't cold, but the feeling in Serala's stomach was – ice-cold, as those who had seen the land freeze and their breaths turned into mist said. She wrapped the robe around herself more closely to chase away the goose bumps that had risen on her skin.

"What of…?" Her eyes glanced at the corpse and returned to her husband's face in a heartbeat. She had never witnessed death before, not from such proximity; it made her physically ill. How could maesters or knights face it time and time again and not go mad from the sight or the stench of it? "The king cannot be buried in Duskendale."

Denys frowned, contemplating her words. The long silence made hairs rise on the back of Serala's neck. She couldn't escape the feeling that they were being eavesdropped on; by gods, by the dead king, by spies? She hadn't forgotten her qualms about the Hand's involvement in the attack on the king's party; the king's sudden death in the middle of the night, just as it had seemed he had escaped death's clutches, only raised those suspicions further. The possibility of Tywin Lannister having a spy in Duskendale who could have slipped a few drops of poison into the king's mouth was far from unimaginable, especially after Denys had commanded the king's men, one of them a Kingsguard, be killed in their sleep to prevent their possible escape in the case the king recovered. Luckily, no questions about their fates had risen thus far; Lady Lannister had yet to notice their absence and the king was in no state to ask questions any longer.

Or at least he shouldn't be. Couldn't they have this conversation someplace else?

"I will send men to return it to King's Landing at sunrise, with my truest condolences for the royal family." Denys said at last, snapping her out of her musings. His eyes, black in the light of a single candle, finally met hers. "And with a letter to Tywin Lannister about the king's final words to his daughter. If he doesn't want the paternity of his children questioned, he will give me what I ask for."

Serala didn't share his confidence. Indeed, such a threat could make a man as proud as Tywin Lannister think twice about denying their demands. However, it could also make him absolutely determined to see those who were familiar with the leverage behind it silenced forever. She didn't think her husband understood what kind of dangerous game he was playing and she most certainly didn't trust him to win it. The breath of death was too palpable on the back of her neck to keep her peace any longer.

"I think we should end this, Denys." Her voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper. She had to trade carefully on this matter, speak her mind hesitatingly, like a good, dutiful wife, but still get her point across. "Before we reach a place we won't be able to come back from."

As she'd expected, his eyes widened in shock, as if he couldn't fathom she had an opinion of her own that dared disagree with his.

"You would have me return the girl like an obedient dog bringing a lost possession back to its master?" He snarled aggressively, raising his voice. "You would see me ridiculed by the entire realm? By my own men? Are you out of your mind?"

Her eyes narrowed against her will. She was not willing to die to appease his pride. _I would see_ _ **us**_ _alive._

"I've only suggested…"

"Have you grown so fond of the girl already?" Denys interrupted her, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips. "And here I thought you lacked a weak womanly heart, Serala. I thought you were made of a more resilient substance."

It took every last bit of her self-restraint to defy the desire to slap him and keep her hands at her sides. She needed to remain calm. Pride was a weakness to exploit, not to exhibit.

He could mock her easily, knowing she couldn't strike back, she snorted inwardly. She would gladly see how he fared against Tywin Lannister – if that wouldn't put _her_ in danger too."

"Those two families in the West," She said coldly, abandoning all forms of submission. "They thought they were safe behind their walls too."

She didn't wait for his answer. She had said everything she had to say, even if Denys hadn't wanted to hear it. The stunned silence that was left in her wake made her lips curl into a satisfied grin.

As she passed by the room where Cersei Lannister slept, that grin turned into a calculating frown.

If Denys kept insisting on being foolish and proceeded with his plan, she would be in need of a new ally within the castle. People of Duskendale held no love for her; they were indifferent to her at best. Denys' family despised her. As it seemed, Cersei Lannister was the only person in Duskendale whose favour (and the advantages that came with it) Serala could hope to gain. If properly directed, it could further Denys' plan and thus make him adore his beautiful wife again. If his scheme didn't play out as he planned, having Lady Lannister's goodwill could gain Serala important advantage over her enemies, on both sides of Duskendale's walls. She needed to gain the girl's trust – not for Denys, but for herself – just in case.

She was no prophet, but that cold feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that a time would come when Cersei Lannister's goodwill would be desperately needed rather than convenient. She hoped dearly she was wrong. She hoped long into the sleepless night.

* * *

Since the moment the word had come, he couldn't help wondering what he would feel when he finally laid eyes on the body.

The man who had a long time ago been counted among rare few he called friends was dead. The man who had lusted after his wife was dead. The man who had been constantly trying to undermine him for the last few years was dead.

White-haired and pale-skinned, bathed in shadows that numerous candles in the room couldn't illuminate. Almost the same in death as he had been in life.

The sight stirred no grief. No anger. No contentment.

Aerys was dead and Tywin felt absolutely _nothing_.

He raised his head, allowing his gaze to fall on Rhaegar, who stood facing him. The prince's cheeks were dry, but his eyes were not. His mask of composure was fragile, just about broken. In a moment of weakness, his hand reached out for his father's, only to fall back at his side as the price remembered he wasn't alone.

Violet eyes met green; sorrow met emptiness.

Neither spoke. Words of one wouldn't have been understandable to the other.

Men and women kept going about their business around them, preparing the king's body for the pyre. Except for the Hand and the Crown Prince, they were the only ones who knew of the king's death. The body had arrived to King's Landing long after the sun had set; even the queen still slept soundly, oblivious to her husband's fate. Rhaegar had insisted he would carry the news to her himself; nobody dared disregard the grieving prince's order.

"My Lord Hand?" An unfamiliar voice called quietly, as if its owner didn't want to disturb the nearly complete silence that weighed heavily on the room, like humidity that lingered in the air just before a storm.

Tywin broke the eye-contact with Rhaegar and turned to face a middle-aged man wearing Darklyn colours that had appeared at his side. The man bowed his head and pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket.

"Your master has already made his demands quite clear." Tywin stated coldly, refusing to accept the offered letter. Perhaps Denys Darklyn's wishes had grown with his arrogance; in any case, whatever he wanted, he wouldn't get it. "Tell him he will have his answer soon enough."

The man didn't seem deterred by the dismissal.

"Pardon me, my lord, but my orders are to deliver this. For your eyes only."

The force with which Tywin snatched the letter from the man's hand nearly tore the parchment apart. Was Denys Darklyn truly so foolishly arrogant that he dared rub what he thought would be his triumph in Tywin's face? Had he the nerve to openly threaten to make Cersei the one to pay the price of Tywin's stubbornness?

He unravelled the parchment and began to read. Words flew in front of his eyes almost faster than he could absorb their meaning – _almost_.

If that insolent, conceited boy was in front of him right now, he would murder him with his bare hands.

He read the letter one more time, just to be certain his eyes hadn't deceived him. They had not.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tywin reacted instinctively. He let the flame of the nearest candle swallow one corner of the letter and soon the whole piece of parchment caught fire. He dropped it onto the floor and crushed the ashes beneath his boot. It was the only answer the man in yellow and black could take back to his master.

"Lord Tywin?"

He had intended to walk away without a word, but he couldn't ignore the Crown Prince – soon to be crowned king. He met the young man's gaze again, willing his rage to subdue, and waited for the prince to speak first.

"What…" Rhaegar cleared his throat tensely. "What did it say?"

Was it grief for Aerys or fear for Cersei that made the prince's voice quiver?

It hardly mattered. Cersei was still a prisoner of an arrogant, imprudent fool who dared smear her reputation and her mother's memory. Until Denys Darklyn and all who were familiar with the contents of that letter were reduced to a pile of bones, all plans about the royal betrothal (and everything else) were put to a halt. Nobody slandered the Lannister name in Tywin's presence and lived.

"Nothing worth mentioning, my prince." He said in as calm tone as he could muster, struggling to appear composed. He bowed slightly, indicating his intention to leave. "I will leave you in peace."

Unfortunately, Rhaegar refused to accept his words as a parting. Bypassing the stone block which Aerys' body lay on (the man in Darklyn colours quickly stepped away to allow the prince to pass), he came to face the Hand, his violet eyes narrowed in _anger_.

"I am your king now, Lord Tywin." Once again, Prince Rhaegar displayed an unnatural change of mood; where had previously stood a devastated son, now there was an imposing commander in his place. "I will decide what is and what isn't worthy of mentioning."

Tywin bowed his head in what one would consider a wordless apology, but it was actually a way to hide his (unpleasant) surprise from the prince. Perhaps he had been careless in his assumptions Rhaegar would make a better king than his father. Aside from colouring, he usually saw little of Aerys in Rhaegar (the Crown Prince resembled his great-grandfather Aegon more than any of his parents), but these sudden mood-swings were as unwelcome as they were unnerving. He wouldn't have one madman replaced by another.

"It was filled with empty excuses as to why my daughter hasn't returned to the capital yet." An easy lie and not entirely untruthful. "I admit my frustration has got better of me."

Relief softened Rhaegar's features, lightening his face up for a few brief moments as his fears were pacified – until his gaze once again fell on Aerys' body. His expression transformed again, into that of a lost child. He blinked quickly a few times, as if holding back tears; if that was what he was trying to do, he was failing miserably. Tywin scowled in disdain; the future king couldn't be seen snivelling like a girl. He needed be removed from everyone's sight until he pulled himself together – which he would have to do fast. They had a rebellious lord to deal with.

"You should carry the news to the queen, my prince." Tywin said firmly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. The statement danced on a thin line between suggestion and command.

In whatever way Rhaegar took it, the prince only nodded his agreement. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand fleetingly. Tywin stared after him until he left the room and then his gaze returned to Aerys' pale, motionless face.

 _All these years, you believed it had been Joanna._

The idea had been Joanna's. The act had been someone else's.

 _She didn't even do it for you._

She had been unyielding in her decision, going so far as to claim she would act alone if he wanted no part in it. Nothing Tywin had said had managed to sway her. He had had no choice but to assist her in her ploy, even if only to save her from the consequences of her own thoughtlessness. It was thanks to his efforts Aerys had never found out the truth.

 _You died thinking she had loved you._

For his once-friend, Tywin would have felt something – pity, at least – once. Now, he felt absolutely nothing.

* * *

Emotions whirled within him like a storm, one replacing the other with every step, every breath, every heartbeat, so quickly Rhaegar couldn't feel any of them properly. Fury, sorrow, loss, uncertainty, fear.

Why hadn't he been warned? Why hadn't his dreams – his _useless_ dreams – told him his father was going to die in Duskendale? He could have prevented him from going, _somehow_ , if he knew death awaited him there. He could have saved him.

What if the other dreams were just that – dreams? What if they were just fragments of his imagination – or something even worse?

What if _he_ was mad?

The thought made him stumble; he barely managed to lean onto the nearest wall and regain his balance. No, he wasn't mad, he reassured himself as he caught his breath. He wouldn't be contemplating the possibility if he was, would he?

Whispers of Aerys' madness had begun with the rise in frequency of his outbursts. He had been losing his temper more easily and more often. Just like Rhaegar had earlier with the Hand. Had his loss of composure been rooted in helplessness, grief and frustration with his dreams or in something more sinister?

Breathing heavily, he finally reached the door that led to Mother's chambers – and his breath caught in his throat. Ser Gerold, who was supposed to stand guard, was nowhere in sight.

His heart began to pound wildly against his temples. With a sense of dread lingering in his chest, he dashed into the room.

He was met by silence and darkness.

"Mother?" He called out tentatively, like a child afraid of monsters lurking in the shadows.

No answer came. Like her guard, Mother was nowhere to be found. In the light of lit torches that came from the corridor, he saw her bed was unmade, as if she had only just left it mere moments ago.

Had she already been told? Had she gone to see Father's body with her own eyes?

Or had his dreams neglected to warn him of her fate as well?

 _Viserys._

His little brother, whom he, so occupied with prophecies and one certain lady, so rarely bothered to visit. He needed to see him. He needed to make sure he was safe. He needed to be a better brother to him in the future and especially now that the loss of Father was so fresh. Viserys wouldn't even remember him, the man who had been so afraid of losing him he hadn't let anyone even touch him. Aerys' paranoia _had_ been too extreme, but it had been driven by love. Rhaegar had seen too many of his siblings die in cradles and too many scars that had been left in their place to fault his father for dreading the possibility of same fate befalling Viserys. To honour his memory, he would make sure Viserys grew up safe and happy. He would love him like a brother and a son, for both Aerys' sake and his own.

Speaking of his future children, he thought tensely as he rushed down the corridor towards Viserys' chamber, what of the lady who was supposed to birth them? What if his faith that Cersei would be safe was based on a mere fantasy? What if death took her from him too?

But if his visions were lies, didn't that mean he didn't need her after all? Didn't that mean he shouldn't be as concerned for her as he was? Didn't that mean the thought of any harm coming to her shouldn't make his hands shake in both anger and fear?

The realization struck him like a blow in the chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

He had grown fond of her, of her voice, of her laugh, of the shine in her eyes. Too fond.

He needed her to be his Visenya, his warrior queen, the dark sister. He needed her to make him stronger without being his weakness. She mustn't become his Rhaenys instead. It could ruin everything.

But if his dreams weren't real, didn't that mean he didn't need her to be his Visenya? Didn't that mean he could allow his fondness of her to grow?

Didn't that mean deep affection already existed and he was past the point of return?

* * *

He was so beautiful. Asleep in his bed, far from any worry or pain that plagued this world.

Her sweet Viserys. Her precious baby boy. Her heart ached with desire to stand up from her seat, embrace his thin form and fall asleep with him nestled in her arms.

Rhaella would give her life to protect him – and Rhaegar also, of course. She remembered watching her eldest son sleep like this too, watching his chest rise and fall as he breathed, watching him frowning or smiling as he dreamed. Sometimes, she would lie down and fall asleep next to him, to wake up to sunshine in his eyes. Once upon a time, so long ago it seemed as if it had happened in another life.

Lifting her eyes from Viserys' peaceful face, she glanced at Ser Oswell, who stood on the other side of the bed, his gaze on the young prince, dedicated to his duty. He didn't even notice her looking at him. He _would_ notice if she reached out and removed an unruly lock off Viserys' forehead. He would tell her, as considerately as that was possible, that he couldn't allow her to touch the prince. The king had commanded so and the Kingsguard was bound to obey, even if it meant he had to defy the queen.

Rhaella didn't want the man to become another target of her husband's wrath, so she kept her longing (and hands) to herself. Ser Oswell just did what he'd sworn to do when he'd accepted the white cloak.

The door swung open, startling her out of her musings. Her gaze went to the entrance at once.

"Mother?" A silhouette asked breathlessly, his face hidden in the shadows, contrasting with his silver hair.

She blinked in disbelief, wondering what had brought him there at this time of night. Why wasn't he asleep?

"Rhaegar?" She called out softly as she stood up. "Is something the matter?"

He strode forward into the room, as if the sound of his steps might compensate for his lack of words.

"I…" He cleared his throat uncertainly. "I looked for you in your chambers."

Rhaella had told no-one of her late-night visits to Viserys' room ( _who would she even tell?_ ). It was a way for her to make up for the time she couldn't spend with her younger son by day. Just watching him sleep peacefully made her heart feel lighter. Losing her own sleep didn't bother her; restlessness stole her sleep constantly anyway.

However, now she was feeling guilty for replacing her chambers with Viserys' without telling at least her eldest son. Rhaegar needed her and she wasn't where he'd expected to find her. He was as much her son as Viserys was. She should have told him.

She approached him closer; he seemed to remain tied at the spot in the middle of the room, as if his legs couldn't find the strength to carry him further. Her hands found their way to his cheeks, her thumbs drawing the shape of his cheekbones.

His skin was damp beneath her fingertips.

"Rhaegar?" His name came out shakily out of her mouth, her heart starting to thunder inside her chest. She hadn't seen him cry in _years_. _What could have happened…_ "Is everything alright?"

"It's…" His words turned into whispers – instead of into sobs. "It's Father."

 _Aerys?_ According to what she had heard, her husband had been gravely wounded on his way to Duskendale and his life was hanging by a threat.

( _It would have been improper of her to hope, so she had been trying to avoid thinking about him entirely. His life didn't rest in her hands. If it did…_ )

Rhaegar's fingers curled around her upper arms, as if he feared the weight of the news might cause her to lose her footing. Or maybe that it would cause him to lose his.

"He is gone, Mother." He whispered so quietly she barely heard him. "He is gone."

To claim she was sad would be a lie.

To claim she was happy would be a lie.

Without a word, Rhaella pulled her son into her arms, pressing gently against the back of his neck as he leaned his head on her shoulder. He sobbed quietly in her embrace, soaking the material of her robe with his tears. She let him cry for the father he knew and loved, for the father she was certain he would never have got back, even if Aerys had lived.

She wouldn't mourn a husband, but she might find it in herself to mourn a brother. Some other time, when she had comforted her sons.

"Do I have your permission to hold my sons as they mourn their father, Your Grace?" She murmured into Rhaegar's ear when his sobs had pacified. He was her king now and the only one who could undo Aerys' command to the Kingsguard.

Silence lingered in the room for a few moments, as Rhaegar struggled to conceal his pain well enough to be able to look the knight in the eyes.

"Ser Oswell." His voice was so close to breaking Rhaella shuddered. "Leave us."

Ser Oswell, of course, hadn't heard Rhaegar's earlier words and had a duty to object to this order.

"My prince, I…"

"My husband is dead." Rhaella interrupted him firmly before he could finish the sentence. Rhaegar stiffened in her arms, as if he might collapse, but she held him tightly, refusing to let him break. "My son is your king now. Do as he says."

Ser Oswell didn't question her words; he left them alone immediately, closing the door behind him. He could hear the whole story from someone else. Tywin Lannister was surely awake and aware of everything.

Rhaella and her sons deserved one night of peace. They deserved far more, but one night was all they could afford.

"Come." She pulled Rhaegar by the hand and was met by no resistance.

They slipped into the bed, each on one side of Viserys, who stirred a little, but didn't wake up. Rhaella watched as Rhaegar took his brother's small hand into his own and placed a gentle kiss on his temple before letting his head fall onto the pillow next to Viserys'. The tenderness of the gesture made tears start falling down her cheeks as well, but hers were not tears of grief. Careful not to wake them, she placed her hand over her sons' and watched them sleep with Rhaegar's arm wrapped protectively around his younger brother's frame. The sight made her feel like a fire had been ignited within her heart that would never be extinguished – not for as long as she remembered this, not for as long as she lived.

Sleep caught her unaware; she surrendered to it with a smile.


	9. IX

**Hello again, dear readers. The new chapter is finally here and I hope you'll like it. Thank you for your patience and for the support you've shown to this story, it means a lot to me.**

 **Happy Easter to all of you who celebrate. To those of you who do not, I wish a lovely Sunday.**

 **Now, on with the story :)**

"There you go." Rhaella stood up to get a full view on her work.

A moment later she was kneeling again and straightening the black tunic Viserys was wearing. Its sleeves and neckline were lined with red, the only specks of colour on him, as his breeches and boots were completely black. There were hardly any wrinkles on his clothes, but she was so happy she was finally allowed to touch him freely that she couldn't stop doing it. He waited patiently as she made sure every little detail was polished to perfection, not letting out a single syllable of complaint. She liked to think he enjoyed receiving her love as much as she enjoyed showering him with it.

Truly, she had to stop or they would be late. He was perfect just as he was.

"Now you are ready." She straightened her back and smiled from ear to ear at the sight of her little prince. He made her heart swell with pride and love.

As if her longing was completely obvious to him, he raised his little hands towards her, asking her to lift him. She did so with delight. The servants assigned to him barely had any duties anymore, she had stolen them all.

"Now you must be very quiet." She told him seriously as she tucked a lock of silver hair behind his ear. "Today is a very important day, Viserys. A man called the High Septon will place a crown on your brother's head and proclaim him King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His name…"

"…King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." A new voice finished softly, but with the most subtle note of bitterness echoing in it.

Rhaella looked towards the door and saw her eldest son approaching them. He was wearing magnificent black armour; the three-headed dragon spread its wings across his chest, the carvings in the metal lined with rubies. She had never seen anyone look more majestic – and more wretched at the same time. His skin was almost uncannily pale and his violet eyes looked haunted, sadder than Rhaella had ever seen them. She wished with all of her heart she could make the sorrow disappear. Not even under Aerys' torture had she ever felt so powerless.

"Yes." Her eyes returned to Viserys, who was looking at Rhaegar uncertainly, unused to his presence. "And he will be a wise and just king," Her voice dropped down to a whisper as she locked eyes with her eldest again, "Until the end of his days."

A shadow crossed Rhaegar's eyes, as if he knew something she did not.

"I hope I will not disappoint you, Mother." He said quietly after a few moments of silence, as if he had to tear the words out from his throat.

She stretched her hand out to caress his cheek gently; after a few moments of hesitation, he leaned into her touch, seeking warmth and comfort. Aerys' death had shattered the thick layer of ice that had been surrounding him, that had only allowed others to see him, but not to reach him. She was partially to blame for its formation too; so preoccupied with trying to birth another heir to the throne, with the numerous miscarriages and stillbirths and Aerys' accusations of infidelity, she had failed to do right by her young son. As much as it pained her to see him devastated, a small part of her was grateful that he was reaching out to her for reassurance, that she had been given this opportunity to reconnect with him.

"I know you won't." Her hand slid down her face to his shoulder, which she gave an encouraging squeeze to. "You are ready. And if you need us, we will be here," She smiled widely at the boy in her arms, "Won't we, Viserys?"

Instead of answering, Viserys turned to hide his face in the crook of her neck.

Her smile diminished, Rhaella sighed and stroked the back of his head tenderly. Aside from his two nurses and the knights of the Kingsguard, she was the only one whose company he didn't shy away from. Aerys' paranoia had turned him into an outcast even amongst his own family. When he had woken up that morning to find Rhaegar sleeping next to him, he had nearly pushed Rhaella off the bed trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his older brother. It was only sheer luck Rhaegar had been so exhausted that the commotion hadn't awoken him and he hadn't had to witness Viserys being so wary of him. Rhaella didn't want her sons to end up as estranged as she and Aerys had been. She wanted them to be each other's strength, like Viserys' namesake and Aegon III had been.

"Don't hold his reserve against him." She smiled reassuringly, trying to prevent the distance between her boys from growing. "He will come around in time. If your father…"

She fell silent, but the damage had already been done; Rhaegar's eyes glazed over, as if he couldn't hold back the tears.

However, when he spoke, his voice didn't quiver. It was firm and accusing.

"I am to blame for his reserve." He said, his eyes fixed on the back of Viserys' head. "I've been neglecting him since he was born."

"That's not true." She countered instantly, instinctively.

After a few moments of careful reconsideration, she realized she wouldn't need both hands to count all the times she remembered him visiting his brother's chambers.

Rhaegar's eyes met hers again, with a knowing expression that made it seem he could read her mind.

"Yes, it is." He let out a weary sigh. "I convinced myself I didn't have the time to visit him, even though, when it was necessary, I found the time for Lady La…"

He fell silent abruptly and looked away, but Rhaella had heard enough to make her own conclusions and consequently come up with further questions.

Perhaps it was cruel of her to take advantage of his distraction and grief, but she was determined to find out more about his endeavours in the company of Joanna's daughter, especially as she hadn't seen them together at all during Lady Lannister's stay in King's Landing. _When_ did they spend time together? Were they alone? He must know what danger that would present to her reputation. Did the Hand know about this?

Speaking of the Hand…she pushed her curiosity aside, reasoning there were more urgent matters she needed to discuss with her eldest son.

"I don't think it would be wise for you to go to Duskendale with Tywin Lannister."

Her voice had sounded too wary even to her own ears, but old habits died hard and she had been forced to call Aerys King for far too long.

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows inquiringly. She took it as an indication to go on.

"While your father was on the throne, it was said that he might wear the crown, but Tywin Lannister was the one who ruled the Seven Kingdoms." Quite a correct description of the state in the court in Rhaella's opinion, not that anyone would have dared voiced it after what had happened to Ser Illyn Payne. "If you accompany him to a battle against a lord you have no quarrel with, people will say the same thing about your reign. He has enough men and resources to fight his own battles. Let him."

Silence lingered between them for a few moments as her son – her king – contemplated her words.

"The Darklyns had defied the Crown before they took Lady Lannister captive." He said finally, his voice and expression carefully controlled when he uttered the lady's name. "Besides, I find it hard to believe that only Father, while gravely wounded, and Lady Lannister made it to Duskendale safely. Yet there has been no word of Ser Gwayne or any of the other knights."

She had to admit he had a point there, even if it didn't ease her qualms regarding Tywin Lannister's role in Rhaegar's rule. People might still view his reasoning as a sign of weakness or submissiveness to the Hand. Rhaegar's reign was too young and fragile for him to lose the respect of his subjects.

Could they excuse choices they had all made in their youth for the same reasons? Would affection be seen as less of a weakness? It was clear from his earlier slip and the attempt to cover his connection to the girl that Rhaegar's motivation wasn't completely impersonal. Lady Lannister had clearly left a mark on him. Could the bond between them inspire admiration among the people instead of sneer and whispers of how nothing had changed and Tywin Lannister still ruled the Seven Kingdoms?

Her silence had lasted for long, so it fell upon Rhaegar to interrupt it.

"I intend to keep Tywin Lannister as the Hand, no matter what people might whisper about his influence on me." His voice was steady and unyielding; in that moment, she believed he would be able to stand his ground against Lord Lannister in the Small Council. "He is many things, but he is not incompetent."

Rhaella could only nod her agreement. Despite his pride and thirst for power, Tywin Lannister had saved the Seven Kingdoms from falling into ruins because of Aerys' neglect. It would be unwise to offend that man, for more reasons than one.

"But if you even think, even for a moment, that I have become susceptible to his influence, do not hesitate to tell me so."

His words surprised her, made her breath catch in her throat. Was he implying her word would actually _matter_?

"In private, of course." Rhaegar continued evenly as if he hadn't noticed the disbelief that must have been written all over her face. "I hope you understand."

It was obvious what he meant: _if a king ruled by his Hand was considered weak, what would be thought of a king ruled by his_ _ **mother**_ _?_

Still, he had given her permission to share her opinion with him freely. Left speechless, she could only nod again.

He breathed in deeply and exhaled, as if preparing to face a dangerous opponent in a battle to the death. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, with his hands clenched firmly into fists. When he reached the wooden door, he pushed it wide open and gestured to her to go first.

She adjusted her hold on Viserys and exited the room, leaving Rhaegar alone behind her back. As she strode towards the throne room, an occasional servant passing by bowed at her with 'my queen' muttered under their breath. It was only when she realized she wouldn't be holding that title for much longer that she remembered her desire to talk to Rhaegar about Cersei Lannister. It was clear there was so much she didn't know about the relationship between her son and the Hand's daughter. Judging by the lack of gossip, it had remained a mystery to the rest of the kingdom as well. Of course, as Rhaegar still wasn't married (or even betrothed), nobles from all over the realm would come to court to present their daughters, in hope one of them might win the new king's heart. But what if it was already in the possession of Lady Lannister? What if the golden-haired girl _was_ the future queen?

 _Joanna's daughter taking what could have been her mother's place. If he had been buried rather than burned, Aerys would be spinning in his grave._

As lost in her thoughts as she was, she was only brought back to the present when she heard the deep voice of the High Septon announce:

"I proclaim you King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

* * *

 _Stupid._

Hit.

 _Prince._

Hit.

 _Stupid._

Hit.

 _Stupid._

Hit.

 _Prince!_

Hit-hit-hit.

He knocked the sword out of his opponent's hand, a broad-shouldered, brown-haired boy a head and a half taller and three years older, with only a handful of exchanged blows. The weapon fell onto the ground with a thud, too far away for the boy to pick it up again, even if he wasn't busy swallowing hard as the tip of the other sword (blunt, but threatening all the same) circled around his Adam's apple.

The look of fear on the boy's face made anger rise within Jaime.

No, it was the boy as whole that made him furious. He was too short, too young, too slow, too weak, too not-the-Crown-Prince. Too not the thief who had stolen his sister. Too not the man whose face he imagined on every opponent he faced. The man who he wanted humiliate in front of Cersei. Make him beg for mercy. Make her realize her mistake. Make her come back and beg him for forgiveness.

( _Not Cersei. She would never beg. But he liked to think she would._ )

But how was he supposed to reach the level of skill necessary to defeat the Crown Prince if he practiced with such weak opponents? He didn't even need to break a sweat to defeat boys two or three years his seniors anymore. He was good at swordplay, more than good. He could become the greatest swordsman in the world (after Ser Arthur Dayne, of course), but he needed to be challenged. He needed his skills to improve with each combat, but he could feel he wasn't trying as hard when he knew he would win. That would not do. Losing to Rhaegar in front of Cersei _would not do_.

"Milord," An unfamiliar voice reached his ears. He turned and saw a servant standing close by with his head bowed, "Your uncle wants to see you."

Before he could even try to restrain himself, frustration overcame him.

He threw the sword on the ground and walked away, leaving it lying in the grass. Gritting his teeth in anger, he marched on straight towards his uncle's chambers, his steps echoing the corridors as though a giant was striding through the castle. If Uncle Kevan wanted to see him, it probably meant he intended to cut Jaime's sword-fighting lessons short in favour of stupid things like sums or politics. Couldn't he leave those boring things to Tyrion, who actually _liked_ them? He read and wrote better at four than Jaime did at one-and-ten. The older Lannister brother couldn't be bothered by the fact; his weapon of choice was a sword, not a quill. No matter what Father or anyone said.

In Uncle Kevan's headquarters, he found their holder seated at the wooden desk, but also his other uncles and Aunt Genna, who was sitting on the chair opposite to Uncle Kevan with Tyrion on her lap. He locked eyes with her first, then with other pairs of emerald irises, before his gaze settled on the man who had invited him there.

"Jaime." Uncle Kevan beckoned him to come closer.

He moved to stand next to Aunt Genna and ruffled Tyrion's hair affectionately, without taking his eyes off the oldest of his father's younger brothers.

"We have received word from your father." Uncle Kevan glanced at a piece of parchment in his hands and sighed, then looked at Jaime again with a pitiful look in his eyes. "Your sister…she is held captive."

 _She…_

Jaime suddenly felt as if he was under water, as if he was trying to breathe in, but there was a barrier in his lungs, just like there was one within his mind that prevented him from making sense of Uncle's words.

 _Cersei…Is held captive?_

He was distantly aware his mouth was hanging open in shock, but he couldn't care less. Next to him, Aunt Genna was talking to Tyrion quietly, but Jaime was too stunned to make out the words.

"We will gather our men and head for Duskendale in three days' time." Uncle Kevan said, not giving him a chance to speak. "You and Tyrion will remain here with Genna. When Cersei is safe, we will send word."

He didn't spare a heartbeat to think.

"I'm coming with you."

As one, every pair of eyes in the room save for Tyrion's narrowed at him.

"If Jaime is going, then I wanna go too!" His little brother exclaimed at the top of his voice, but nobody paid any attention to him.

"Absolutely not." Uncle Kevan said in a tone that wouldn't allow any objection, if it had been used by Father. "You are too young, and even if you weren't, your father has commanded that you remained here."

"She is my sister." Jaime protested. He only noticed he had moved and was now towering over Uncle Kevan when he slammed his fists onto the desk.

"Mine too!" Tyrion shouted at once.

Biting his lip to prevent himself from snapping, Jaime wished his little brother would hold his tongue. Tyrion's whining made _his_ request to go with his uncles seem so childish. He couldn't be left behind; he had to be there, where his sister was, to rescue her.

 _My sister, who left me for the prince._

Why was he insisting on going? Why did he care what happened to Cersei? She didn't care for him anymore. She had her prince to rescue her – if he could. Perhaps Prince Rhaegar would fail to free her and she would realize Jaime was the only one who would never let her down and return to him…

"And what do you think a boy of one-and-ten could do to save her that thousands of grown men couldn't?" Uncle Tygett's cold voice snapped him out of his musings. "You will stay where you are. Cersei will be fine. The Darklyns won't dare harm her."

The thought of Cersei hurting – _bleeding_ the blood they shared – made Jaime's stomach turn and his hands shake. He pressed his eyelids together, until he could see nothing but darkness instead of crimson.

He wasn't supposed to feel this way. He shouldn't care – and yet he did. It was instinctive, carved into the core of his soul. He couldn't let anyone hurt her.

There was only one person in this world that had the right to hurt her; it was him.

"Take him with you."

Instantly, gazes of all men turned to Aunt Genna.

"If we don't let him go, he will try to follow you." The golden-haired woman said with a knowing look in her eyes as they met Jaime's. "I would rather know he was safe with you than worry where he could be. Take him with you. He will be where he wants to be, but far from any battle and we will all sleep more peacefully at night."

"Tywin said he was to remain here." Uncle Kevan countered, but he seemed less determined to obey that command than he'd been a few moments ago.

Aunt Genna let out a mocking snort and rolled her eyes.

"If you are scared of Tywin's reaction, tell him it was my idea." Her lips curled into a mischievous smirk. "He is already used to my most unbecoming trait of thinking with my own head."

Jaime's uncles rolled their eyes at her remark, but didn't protest. Excitement rose within him; they would let him come with them.

"But, Aunt Genna, I wanna go too!" Tyrion moaned, to Jaime's irritation.

He didn't get angry with his brother often, but Tyrion's belief in Cersei's impending return and the innocent love he held for her vexed him to no end. How could he keep hoping when she never came back, day after day? How didn't he see she had abandoned them? Jaime had been refusing to write to her since she had left, but Tyrion claimed they occasionally communicated through letters ( _Jaime couldn't bring himself to believe that, doubting Cersei would waste the precious time she could be spending with the prince to write to Tyrion_ ). How could he forgive her betrayal so easily? Did he love her more than even her own twin? No, he couldn't – it was not possible.

"Someone must stay and keep me company, darling." Aunt Genna caressed Tyrion's cheek and placed a kiss on his temple. "Otherwise I'd get bored and lonely. You wouldn't want me to feel lonely, would you?"

Tyrion stared at her thoughtfully for a few moments, then shook his head. Aunt Genna smiled at him and ruffled his hair, then turned to the men and boy standing in front of her.

"That's settled then." Her words (and tone) _were_ unquestionable.

Not for the first time, it crossed Jaime's mind that it was Aunt Genna who was most fearsome of Father's siblings. Aside from Father, she was the last person he would willingly make an enemy of.

"You should go prepare yourself for the journey. If you are late, along with _you_ ," Her eyes paused on Jaime, "Being where you are not supposed to be, Tywin might actually have all of our heads."

* * *

Lifting her eyes from the needlepoint in her hands, Cersei let out a quiet sigh and glanced around absently, allowing the muscles of her neck to relax and stretch as her head turned. If only she could stand up and stretch her legs too; a sword-fighting lesson would do them exceptionally good.

Her gaze passed over the ladies that surrounded her without truly seeing any of them; all grown women, the youngest of them six years older than Cersei, already a mother of a boy of two. She had found she had little in common with them; luckily, her lack of interest in the subjects chosen by the other women hadn't gone unobserved by Lady Darklyn. The red-haired woman changed subjects effortlessly, as if she herself was bored with them, and didn't try to forcefully include Cersei in their conversations. She rather left her be, which Cersei appreciated greatly. If she focused all her attention on her work, it helped placate her thoughts. Once snapped out of that state of not-thinking, it took a lot of time for her mind to return to it, so she swiftly averted her gaze from the women, having no desire to start another pointless exchange.

Her eyes paused on the window, where the sunset was colouring the sky.

A big sphere of yellow with rings of gold and orange around the edge, specks of red, crimson and amethyst staining a few passing clouds, a wave of cerulean washing over the beaches of indigo.

The sight lured another sigh from her throat to her lips. Another day had gone by; no message had come from King's Landing.

What was Father doing? Where was he? Was he coming?

Had Rhaegar been crowned King already? Had she missed it?

The suspense was suffocating her; the long days only made the matters worse. She had got used to busy life in King's Landing, as draining as it was. Her days in Duskendale were so _boring_ ; at times, the monotony made her want to scream. She couldn't believe it, but she actually _missed_ Small council meetings. She missed Father's questions about politics, laws and trade. She missed the late-night lessons with Rhaegar. It had taken her a while to realize she missed being challenged, kept on her toes. Being pushed to her limits made her feel like she was aspiring to something great – to being Queen.

In Duskendale, she was just another lady trying to pass the time by sewing, dancing, painting, singing or conversing.

In Duskendale, she had time to think – _too much_ of it.

Being reminded of Mother always felt like a stab in the chest, but since her conversation with the late king, she had been thinking too much about Joanna. Despite it (or maybe just because), Mother's face had never seemed more blurred in her memories; scarred by King Aerys words, it was nearly a face of a stranger now. Cersei had been looking up to her mother all her life, cherished every time she'd been told she looked exactly like Joanna. Thoughts of her had used to be a sanctuary, warm and soothing. Now they were a source of doubt, of fear, of pain. No matter how many times she told herself the king could have lied to her or imagined it all, a small part of her held firmly onto its suspicions and refused to let go. It made the image of Joanna she treasured dissolve slowly, like ashes of a burnt home carried away by wind, and she could do nothing to stop it.

Who could she even ask to relieve her qualms? The king had died (may he burn in the deepest of Seven Hells for his offences against her) and Father would have her tongue cut off if she breathed out a word on the matter. The queen could possibly know the truth too, but Cersei doubted her curiosity about the subject would sit well with Queen Rhaella, so she had dismissed the idea as soon as it had crossed her mind; she didn't want the queen to turn against her. Was there anyone else…

Yes, there was. But that person was so far out of reach, seemingly as far as Asshai by the Shadow.

For the time being, she was left with a single option. She tried to push the matter into the back of her mind and ignore it, but unfortunately, she had just about as much success with them as she had had with Maggy's prophecies when she'd first heard them. Faces of her mother and the witch haunted her waking hours and kept her awake long into the night, occasionally blending into one until she couldn't tell them or the opposite feelings they inspired in her apart.

Without her daily duties, Father's questions about politics, laws and trade and late-night lessons with Rhaegar, her mind had too much time to dwell on things she would rather not think about. She needed to return to King's Landing soon or she would lose her mind.

"You need to come with me."

She blinked in surprise, struggling to process Lord Darklyn's request. As stunned as she was by his sudden appearance, she didn't even notice when she rose to her feet. A few moments later, they were walking together through the stone corridors, followed by steps Cersei could only assume belonged to Lady Darklyn. Stone walls and ceilings soon gave way to open sky and they started climbing the stairway that led to the top of the city gates. She was just about to turn and ask for an explanation when she was blinded by the setting sun as wood gave way to stone beneath her feet. When her eyes recovered from the sudden exposure to light, she instinctively glanced downwards.

Her head started spinning. She hadn't noticed how high Duskendale's walls were before.

"What…" She was at loss for words. Why had Lord Darklyn brought her there?

"It seems your father cares more for his money than for his own flesh and blood." Lord Darklyn remarked mockingly – cruelly even. "I thought the sight of you might convince him to change his mind."

Her father? What was he…

She could see it, if she narrowed her eyes, thus preventing the last sunrays of the day from blinding her. She could see men gathering in the west, far more of them than it was necessary to accompany her to King's Landing. She couldn't distinguish their colours or sigils, but if Lord Darklyn was to be trusted ( _even though he clearly was not_ ), they were Father's men. Perhaps he was among them too.

Her heart leapt into her throat. If Father had come to Duskendale's gates with an army, it meant…

"Let me go." She said with as much steel in her voice as she could muster.

For her efforts, she was rewarded with having to watch Lord Darklyn sneer sardonically at her demand.

"Not until your father gives me what I want." He grabbed her wrist roughly and pulled her closer until she could feel his breath on her face. "You'd better hope he sees sense – _soon_."

The unsaid threat made her heart thunder inside her chest. What would he do to her?

 _Now._ A single word forced its way through the panic that had flooded her mind. She was beside herself with fear, but one small part of her was unnaturally calm, as if unaffected by all that was happening. Father's words started re-emerging from the darkness and she could nearly grasp them. _Make it sound convincing._

She took a deep breath and clenched her fists, emboldened by the sound of Father's voice in her memories. She could do this. She was a lioness, a Lannister.

"If any harm comes to me, he will not hesitate to burn this city to the ground." She could imagine Father would be proud of the sharpness of her glare and the fierceness of her voice. " _Any_ harm." She stressed out for good measure.

Her words had the desired effect. Lord Darklyn's eyes narrowed at her briefly, as if trying to catch her in a bluff, but they both knew she was right. She was just about to grin victoriously when he dropped her wrist and pushed her away harshly. She would have fallen if she hadn't stumbled into the body of a person standing behind her.

"Take her to the dungeons." Lord Darklyn snarled, staring at her menacingly. Her nerve evaporated under his glare, leaving only terror behind. "Perhaps it's time the lady learned what it's like when her hosts are not as welcoming as we've been."

Two guards seized her by the elbows and half-carried her to the dungeons. She nearly had to run to keep up with their long strides; wasn't it cruel of them to make her run towards what was to be her cage, as though she longed to be there? She tried to escape their clutches at just about every step, but her struggle was futile; they were older, higher and stronger than her. At least they didn't throw her on the ground like a sack of potatoes when they entered one of the cells beneath the castle, but she hardly enjoyed the treatment she received. She tried to fight them off as one of the guards held her in place and the other chained her wrists, but her resistance represented only an inconvenience to them, rather than a threat. The last she perceived of them was the sound of a key turning inside a lock, but her gaze had stopped following them long before that, focused on the chains that restricted her movements. She gritted her teeth as she tried to make the metal snap in two, but the iron wouldn't yield.

"If you could be so kind as to stop making that infernal noise and listen to me."

At the sound of the voice, she turned around and locked eyes with Lady Darklyn through bars. Fury bubbled inside her chest, hot and destructive like fire dragons breathed.

"Why should I?" She shouted most ungraciously at the red-haired woman; people who crossed her didn't get to make her feel guilty about poor manners. "You keep me prisoner!"

"Lady Darklyn," One of the guards who had brought Cersei to the dungeons called in a tone that suggested his patience was wearing thin. She hoped the guards were feeling guilty for treating a lady so rudely ( _or that they were trembling with fear at the prospect of what Father could do to them if he found out about it, even better_ ), "She is to be…"

"This won't take long." Lady Darklyn cut him off without even a glance in his direction. "Yes, my husband keeps you prisoner." She said calmly to Cersei as their gazes met again, unaffected by her yelling. "He didn't appreciate your rather daring attempt at threatening him. He's thinking of a way of intimidating you as we speak, just to prove that he can."

Chained to a wall and locked behind bars, Cersei didn't really feel courageous anymore, but she couldn't let the Darklyns know they had scared her. She directed her best glare at Lady Darklyn, trying her best to channel her father.

"If he does anything to me, he is a dead man."

"Rage can overcome even the most reasonable of people." Lady Darklyn crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged her shoulders evenly. "He is surely considering handing you over to his men to have their fun. Some of them won't care you haven't even bled yet."

This time, Cersei couldn't help swallowing a lump down her throat. Suddenly, she noticed her hands were shaking; despite her mind's commands, her body displayed her terror openly.

"There is one thing I'd like you to remember during your stay _here_." Lady Darklyn's green eyes rolled in their sockets as she glanced suggestively at the cell Cersei was trapped in. She then crouched, so their faces were nearly in the same level. Unlike her husband, her expression remained as amicable as it had been since Cersei had arrived into this cursed town. Her voice was still soft and kind, as if her words were supposed to be soothing rather than threatening. "Whatever is done to you, it could be far worse. Remember that."

Before Cersei could come up with an answer, Lady Darklyn stood up and left the dungeon, as did the two guards. She was left alone, surrounded by cold walls and hard floor, without anything to eat or drink or even a chamber pot. Once the sun set, what was left of day's light would be gone too.

How dare they treat her like this, like a common thief? How dare they threaten her?

Father would make them pay _dearly_ for their insolence. He would make them regret the day they had dared assume they could challenge the lions and live. He would _eradicate_ them.

The Reynes and the Tarbecks had been drowned. A change of method was needed, lest the Lannisters risked being accused of repetitiveness and lack of imagination.

The Darklyns could burn instead.

Suddenly, a strange sound ringed in her ears. She turned around abruptly, as much as her restraint allowed her to, and cast an eye over the space bathed in the weakening light, trying to spot the intruder.

There was no-one there.

She let out a sigh, berating herself silently for reacting so immaturely. A few minutes alone in a prison cell and she was already imagining ghosts of former prisoners chuckling in the shadows? If Jaime was here, he would laugh at her.

She drew her legs closer to her torso, wrapped her arms around her knees and laid her head on them to keep herself warm. Then she closed her eyes and let her breathing pacify.

A cage couldn't break the spirit of a lion. She would wait for her chance and escape.

 _I will see Jaime again. I will return to Rhaegar._

 _And I will be Queen._

* * *

 _There was but one possible response to their enemy's demands._

" _They have to pay for what they've done." She crushed the parchment in her fist and threw it to the flames. "Let me ride to them. Let me bring them fire and blood."_

 _He looked at her with that pleading look in his violet eyes that so infuriated her. It reflected his apprehension. His cowardice. His_ _ **love**_ _._

" _I cannot allow it. They will come after the boy, after_ _ **you**_ _."_

 _She hated him so much for loving her sometimes._

" _Let them come." She brushed off his plead for reason with a dismissive wave of hand. Her pain and her rage were crimson behind her eyelids, just like the blood that had been spilled, that had yet to be spilled. "I will enjoy drenching my sword in their blood."_

" _How if you won't even be able to see them coming? They could come to your chambers wearing my face. You would be dead before you could even scream."_

 _Her eyes narrowed at him. "I would not scream."_

 _Offering no answer to that statement, he made as if to take her hand into his, but she evaded his touch. His eyes filled with different kind of pain, but at the moment, she would take it as proof that he was suffering as much as she was, because she couldn't bear this pain alone._

" _Please." He pleaded with her softly, despite knowing how much she resented seeing him beg. They were blood of the dragon; they begged for nothing under the sky. "You and the boy are all I have left. If I were to lose you…"_

" _You would survive." She cut him off with a cruel snarl that made him stumble, as though she had actually run a sword into his side. It made her scowl in disdain, but beneath the mask, she regretted the necessity of it. He needed to remember who he was, who they were. "You would rule while you lived and your heir would rule after you. Do not tell me otherwise."_

 _She turned on her heel and made as if to leave, but he had recovered from her cruelty before she could leave the room._

" _You will not leave the castle." The change in his tone made her pause at the door. His cruelty was cold like ice, but no less painful when run into her heart like an icicle. "I command it."_

 _She breathed in deeply, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. For a moment, her wrath threatened to overwhelm her, to burn him, the castle and everyone in it until only ashes remained. She would be left to rule alone, the queen everyone would worship and fear._

The dragon has three heads. _She reminded herself._ Never one.

 _She turned around and their gazes met again. As she bowed before him, her eyes never left his._

" _As my king commands."_

 _She knew he knew she would never forgive him._


	10. X

**Hello again, sorry for the long wait, but I'm finally back, with the longest chapter so far (and a very much non-canon idea that I included in ASOIAF mythology which I'm really nervous about whether you folks will like it). Thank you for your patience and for the support you've been giving this story and I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistake.**

"A messenger from the castle, my-Your Grace."

Nobody paid any attention to the guard's almost-slip, not even the king who was supposed to be offended. It wasn't an uncommon error these days. The king's death, the new king's quite rushed coronation, the march to Duskendale, the upcoming siege – the events that were shaking the Seven Kingdoms (the Crownlands more than the rest) had come so quickly one after another that there was little time to adapt to the new circumstances. Luckily for everyone involved, Rhaegar wasn't a man who cut off men's tongues for confusing his former title with a very recent one. Jon doubted he himself had got used to the fact that was now King.

He drained the goblet of wine a servant boy had only just brought him and took his place at the table on Arthur Dayne's left. Both of them had barely left Rhaegar's side since they had ridden out of King's Landing; one of them stood guard every night in front of the crimson tent that served as the headquarters and Rhaegar's temporary sleeping quarters. Jon didn't mind it; he breathed more easily knowing Rhaegar was safe and watched over by his friends, men that could be trusted. Arthur was the only member of the Kingsguard chosen to accompany Rhaegar on this journey; the remaining five Kingsguard had been left behind in King's Landing with the task of watching over Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. The knight was seated on Rhaegar's left, while the place on the prince's – the king's – right was reserved for Tywin Lannister. As he glared at the empty seat, Jon wished Rhaegar would send the Hand (and the rest of his father's Small Council) away and install men of unquestionable loyalty in their place. Those people were loyal only to themselves and their greed, be it for gold or power – with the exception of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard maybe. Rhaegar should surround himself with people he could trust they wouldn't stab him in the back at first opportunity. Jon, for example, would serve his friend honourably and faithfully until the end of his days, with no ulterior motive.

( _Alright, maybe one ulterior motive – hopeless as it was._ )

He allowed himself one long gaze at his friend, inconspicuous among all the expecting gazes that were directed at Rhaegar. The sight made him swallow hard; Rhaegar's handsome features looked too much like those of his dead father at the day of the pyre. In the light of torches and the shadows that shimmered opposite to the dance of the flames, his skin was as pale as his hair and the skin under his eyes was darker than his irises. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he never complained about lack of sleep, as though he was actually running from it.

"Send him in." When he spoke, he sounded as weary as he looked. "And send word to Lord Lannister."

The guard nodded and left the tent. In a few moments, a black-haired man wearing Darklyn colours stepped inside and bowed respectfully at the king. The fake display of loyalty and humbleness made Jon's blood boil; he bit his lip to prevent himself from snorting resentfully. If Lord Darklyn and the men who served him were so loyal to Rhaegar, why hadn't the gates of Duskendale been opened yet?

"Your Grace." The man straightened up and pulled a piece of parchment from his coat. "I bring word from my master."

Without a word, Rhaegar gestured to a servant to take the parchment from the man's hands and bring it over to him. Everyone watched in silence as the letter passed from one pair of hands to another. Rhaegar's eyes skimmed through the words swiftly, almost greedily, as though a great secret was hidden in them.

Jon hoped his friend's eagerness was motivated only by his desire resolve this matter as soon as possible, rather than concern for the Hand's daughter. The girl was just a nuisance who had managed to land herself into a trap and now had to be rescued. Rhaegar should be gathering allies and ruling the Seven Kingdoms at the moment, not wasting his time on saving her. It was only the power her father held and the wealth of her House that made her important. Jon had never seen Rhaegar show the slightest bit of attention or even speak to her during the months she had spent in King's Landing; he didn't seem interested in her in any way. The thought made Jon smirk to himself proudly; it took more than a pretty young face to fool his friend.

"Your master says nothing about Lady Lannister's welfare." Rhaegar said, dropping the letter onto the table almost leisurely, as if it was of no importance.

Then he raised his head and locked eyes with the messenger again. The exhaustion was gone from his features, as though it had melted into his skin, adding another layer of pale marble to the already perfectly sculptured cheekbones. The man shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other under the weight of his gaze, as if just a mere glance burned him.

Rhaegar didn't take his eyes off him for a single moment.

"Is she in good health?" His tone danced on the thin line between a question and demand.

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"She was in good health when I left, Your Grace."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he didn't like the implication the answer held. However, before he could speak again, the Hand walked into the tent.

"Your Grace." Tywin Lannister bowed his head briefly and straightened up even as Rhaegar nodded in acknowledgement of his presence.

He proceeded to seat himself on Rhaegar's right and instantly took the parchment into his hands. After a few moments of silence, he put down the letter and shoved it with more force than necessary across the table towards Arthur.

Jon refused to fear Tywin Lannister, but he couldn't deny that the cold gaze the Hand shot the messenger sent shivers down _his_ spine. If looks were weapons, Tywin Lannister's gaze was Dawn, or Blackfyre – or both. In any case, it made the messenger visibly swallow hard and the rest of the people in the room squirm uneasily. Only Rhaegar didn't seem to be affected, but because of where he was sitting, he couldn't see the murderous glint in the emerald eyes of the Warden of the West.

"You can tell your master that the only terms acceptable to us are that he surrenders peacefully and returns my daughter unharmed." The Hand spoke out of turn, but nobody, not even Rhaegar, called him out on it. "If he complies, we might reconsider his fate."

Lord Lannister hadn't uttered a single word of actual threat, yet Jon could feel it hang forebodingly over them. The messenger nodded quickly, to confirm he had understood the message he was to carry back to his master as much as out of desire to avoid the Hand's glare. He seemed ready to turn on his heel and run back to Duskendale without waiting for Rhaegar's permission; it was his luck Rhaegar wasn't inclined to prolong his suffering.

"If your master surrenders peacefully, he has my word that he will be treated with mercy." The king said solemnly, unaware that his Hand's expression froze at his words. Jon could tell Tywin Lannister had no intention of being merciful, whatever the outcome. "He is surrounded and outnumbered. He would be wise to accept our terms."

The black-haired man nodded once more, keeping his eyes fixed on the silver-haired man. He already began to bow when Rhaegar said: "He has until sundown tomorrow."

After a moment of silence, the man in Darklyn colours nodded with his back bent and then left the tent on much shakier legs than he had entered. The moment he was gone out of their sight, Tywin Lannister stood up and turned to Rhaegar.

"Your Grace." His expression was unreadable as he bowed his head.

Jon couldn't guess what was on his mind and the suspense unnerved him. Everyone knew the stories (and Rains) of Castamere and the ruthlessness of Tywin Lannister. If Denys Darklyn surrendered, would Lord Lannister go behind Rhaegar's back and exact his own vengeance on the man who had taken his daughter captive? He seemed to hold his emotions firmly under control, even a little _too_ firmly; it wasn't hard to imagine he was planning his retribution at that very moment.

Rhaegar waved his hand absently, providing the lord with the dismissal he was asking for. A few moments later, the three younger men were left in silence.

Never the one to keep his thoughts to himself, Jon spoke first.

"It certainly seemed Lord Lannister didn't need us to negotiate." He said ironically, causing Rhaegar and Arthur to raise their heads to meet his eyes. "I don't see why he would need our help to get his daughter back."

The fire that had been burning in Rhargar eyes while they had been talking to the messenger had already been on the brink of dying out when Jon's remark made it burn out, leaving ashes in its wake. The king sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he had managed to hide his weariness from their guest and the Hand, but it was clear he had reached his limits.

"We have talked about this, Jon." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "My presence here has nothing to do with Lord Lannister. Lord Darklyn has neglected to pay his debt to the Crown. If I don't deal with this quickly and efficiently, people will think I'm weak. I can't have that."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, any way one looked at it. However, Jon couldn't help thinking there was more to Rhaegar's motives than proving he was worthy of the crown.

"We could attack the town." He gestured to the entrance to the tent and beyond, where the darkness concealed the walls of Duskendale. "As you have said, they are surrounded and outnumbered. We could defeat them in a few days, instead of waiting for months for them to starve. You can't afford to lose so much time because of some silly girl."

A shadow passed through Rhaegar's violet eyes, making Jon reflexively bite the inside of his cheek. In all the years they had known each other, Rhaegar had never looked at him like that, so… _warningly_.

"Cersei Lannister is not ' _some silly girl_ ', as you have put it." His voice was cold, an emotion very similar to anger dangling in it. "I won't risk any harm coming to her."

The king's words felt like a hit to the chest, knocking the breath out of Jon's lungs. To say he was taken aback was an understatement. Why should they care about a stupid little girl? How could it be in her power to cause a rift between him and his friend?

"Since when is she so important to you?" He had forgotten himself in his shock, dared question his king. "She is just…"

"She _is_ important." Rhaegar interrupted him sternly. He got up to his feet and leaned his hands on the table in front of him, his gaze burning into Jon's. "That is all you need to know."

Jon's mouth hung open as his skin filled with gooseflesh and his heart began to race. He was too stunned to even speak; on the other hand, he was too inclined to say something that would turn Rhaegar even further away from him.

This was a side to Rhaegar he had never witnessed before. Never had anyone been important to Rhaegar before, not enough for their importance to be put into words.

For some reason, Cersei Lannister was. A weak, pathetic little _girl_.

In that moment – since that moment – Jon _hated_ her.

"I don't want to argue with you, Jon." Rhaegar's features softened slightly, but the dismissal in his voice was still loud and clear. "Go get some rest."

Then and there, Jon's self-control was put to the ultimate test. He wanted to argue, to make Rhaegar see reason, to save him from his own foolishness. The girl wasn't worthy of his attention, his _care_. What had she done to earn it? _Nothing._ She had not clashed blades with him in the training yard, over and over again. She had not laughed with him. She had not _made_ him laugh. She had not stood by his side at his father's pyre. She had not stood by his side half of his life.

"Jon."

It wasn't even Rhaegar who had called his name in that tactful tone. Arthur's eyes, almost the same shade of violet as Rhaegar's, urged him to keep his peace. If he didn't know Arthur as well as he did, Jon might have hoped that beyond the cautioning expression the knight was actually on his side. However, he knew perfectly well Arthur wasn't warning him for his sake, but for Rhaegar's. If Jon insisted on objecting, he might even defend the prince's – the king's – argument for him, allowing Rhaegar to surrender to the flow of his thoughts – thoughts of _her_.

Frustrated with the blindness of his friends, but not wanting to say anything he would later come to regret, Jon bit his lip and forced his neck to bend stiffly in Rhaegar's direction. He left the tent in silence, with his teeth and fists clenched. Instead of heading for the nearest fire, where a group of soldiers was eating and laughing, he walked behind Rhaegar's tent, into shadows. In his fuming state, he was in no mood for company.

"Thank you for intervening. I really don't have the strength to argue with him as well." Rhaegar's voice startled Jon.

He was standing at the back side of the king's tent, close enough that he could hear his friends, who had withdrawn deeper into the tent so they could speak in private.

His conscience urged him to leave. He shouldn't eavesdrop on them.

His curiosity wouldn't hear of it.

"As far as everyone is concerned, you have no interest in Lady Lannister." Arthur pointed out calmly. "Your determination to see her freed confuses him. And everyone else. Jon is just the only one blunt enough to ask."

A short pause.

" _You_ never asked me why she was so important that I would risk being caught practicing swordplay with her in the dead of night."

Rhaegar's words caused Jon's eyes to widen in bafflement – and indignation. The Lannister girl was so important that Rhaegar had risked bringing his father's wrath upon himself just to spend time with her? And he hadn't even thought of entrusting Jon with the secret?

"I trust your judgement, Your Grace." Arthur said simply. Jon couldn't see the man or even his silhouette through the thick fabric, but it wasn't hard to imagine a shrug of shoulders accompanying his words.

His nails ran into his palms, but in his exasperation he barely even noticed the pain. Why couldn't Arthur see the truth? If Rhaegar _was_ smitten with the girl, his behaviour, albeit beneath him, could be excused. But why didn't Arthur warn him of how foolish his fondness of her was? He should kill this fancy in its roots, not encourage it.

"You always have." The gratefulness and genuine affection in Rhaegar's voice struck another painful chord. Jon took a deep breath, pushing the bitterness away. "Why do you trust me so implicitly, Arthur? I have wondered."

There wasn't even a moment of silence, of hesitation.

"I have known you as a prince, but also as a friend. I have yet to see you fail me in either role. Why shouldn't I trust you?"

Another pause. A long one. Jon's lungs started to burn with the lack of air.

"You never fear I might disappoint you?"

Rhaegar sounded so unlike himself, so _vulnerable_. Jon's heart ached for his friend, diminishing the anger and bitterness he felt. He wished he could reassure him, tell him _he_ had faith he had in him too.

"If I may be so bold, Your Grace," Arthur said solemnly, "I hope you will allow me to be honest with you before you make any choice that might disappoint me."

Again, silence lingered and lingered, for so long Jon thought all the words had been said.

"If I chose Lady Lannister as my queen, would that disappoint you?" Rhaegar's voice came from a greater distance than before; the matter was obviously preventing the king from sitting still.

Unlike his friend, Jon was petrified. He held his breath and didn't let it out until Arthur spoke again. Rhaegar couldn't be seriously considering this, could he?

"She is rich and from a powerful family." One could hear in Arthur's tone that he was choosing his words carefully. "Everyone thought your betrothal would be announced during our visit to Casterly Rock last year."

Rhaegar didn't reply. Jon pricked his ears, but all he could hear was the laughter of the men by the fire.

"Until the feast on our last day there, you didn't seem interested in her, or the prospect of marrying her."

"I learned something about her that evening that changed everything – _then_." For some reason, Rhaegar stressed out the last word. "Now, I'm not sure _that_ even matters. But between now and then, I…" The king's hesitation wrapped around Jon's throat and cut off breath from his lungs. "I've grown fond of her."

Jon couldn't – _refused_ to – believe his own ears. How? When? _Why?_

Arthur's voice snapped him out of the trance and the pain in his chest grew even stronger.

"It seems as though the choice has already been made."

"It has not." Rhaegar said after a few moments, but his voice lacked the conviction it usually possessed. "I have only…considered it."

"I would advise you not to rush." _Finally_ , Jon thought in relief, _Arthur was speaking sense._ "There are many young maidens in the Seven Kingdoms who would make a fine match. You don't have to make this decision right away. And it is certainly not a decision to be made lightly."

"I am aware of that." The king said solemnly. "It is why I have asked your opinion."

"I am honoured that Your Grace values my opinion." _Arthur_ , Jon rolled her eyes in amusement, _ever the proper knight, even though he'd been Rhaegar's closest friend for years._ "I only urge you to consider your options carefully and objectively and not to let your fondness of Lady Lannister cloud your judgement. You are still young. You have time."

"Do I?" Rhaegar sighed wearily, as if he was cracking under the many burdens he carried on his shoulders. "Only I, my mother, my brother and Aemon have remained of our family. The Targaryen name has never been closer to extinction, not even after the Dance."

Only then did it strike Jon that his friend was right. If any harm befell him and his younger brother, the Targaryen dynasty would die out. The strongest claim on the Iron throne would have their cousins in the Stormlands, the Baratheons, Jon's family's landlords.

"Still, you are right." It was Rhaegar's voice that interrupted the silence. "It is a decision I must not make lightly. And not until I am in the right state of mind."

Since the news of King Aerys' death had reached the capital, Rhaegar had not been the same. He had been ignoring his books, his harp and everyone but Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. Instead of alone, he had been sharing meals with them and sleeping in his brother's chambers. His desire for company was very uncharacteristic and perhaps the greatest proof of how much his father's death affected him. Did he found comfort they provided insufficient? Was that why he considered marrying so soon? Jon wished he would confide in his friends, in the people who cared for him, instead of little girls who could never understand or ease his grief.

After another few moments of silence, Rhaegar spoke again, snapping him out of his musings.

"Thank you for your advice, Arthur." He already sounded distant, but no matter how lost he was in his thoughts, he was never unkind.

Now it was Arthur's voice that came from a distance.

"Your Grace."

Jon's petrified legs finally turned into flesh again, allowing him to walk away at once, heading in an unknown direction, as far from the royal tent as possible. He only then realized how lucky he was not to have been caught. He could just imagine the disappointment that would darken Rhaegar's eyes if he learned that he had been eavesdropping on him and Arthur; he couldn't face that sight in reality. He kept striding further, among tents whose sigils he didn't even recognize, processing everything he had just heard.

Rhaegar wanted a queen to give him heirs, new Targaryens that would continue the line. He wanted Cersei Lannister to be that queen, not only because she was the most reasonable choice, but because he was _fond of her_.

Jon barely swallowed down his revulsion. These sappy declarations sounded _nothing_ like Rhaegar he knew and loved. Had the Lannisters arranged the kidnapping of the real Rhaegar and placed a fraud that looked exactly like him in his stead? Jon found that a more believable explanation of what he was hearing than the possibility of Rhaegar being – his face wrinkled in distaste – _in love_ with the girl. He had known Rhaegar for years and had never seen him in love. In his mind, he always imagined Rhaegar would only marry for political benefits and would never genuinely love his wife, whoever she might be. He would remain as unreachable to her as he was to Jon. Jon could live with that.

There and then, he wished he had never witnessed that heart-to-heart between his friends. A veil had been lifted and now he couldn't escape the knowledge that he had been living (and would possibly forever live) in the shadow of Cersei Lannister.

* * *

"We cannot surrender. If we hand over the girl, we lose our only bargaining chip. We need to negotiate better terms."

Over the table, Denys locked eyes with his master-at-arms, who spoke up the moment the messenger had left the room. Symon held his gaze effortlessly, authoritatively even, as though he was the lord of Duskendale and Denys was a mere servant who had to eagerly jump at his every command. It might be Denys' imagination, but it seemed like Symon's brow arched slightly as he stared back at him, as if to ask 'Why are you still here?'.

Denys despised his good-brother's disrespectful attitude, but as Symon's brothers were married to Denys' cousins, he had no choice but to tolerate him. He was also very skilled with sword, perhaps the finest swordsman in all of Duskendale. As much as it would please Denys to banish him from the city, he knew he would rather have Symon at his side than give him a reason to seek vengeance for such offense. Still, it didn't make putting up with his disregard any easier.

"I have no intention of handing her over." He almost snarled at Symon, but managed to keep tatters of control. He tore his gaze away from the black-haired man and glanced at the rest of the people in the room, Symon's brother Steffon, their cousain Jon and Serala. "We need to let them know that we will not be trifled with."

Everyone around him nodded in agreement, but it took a few moments of thoughtful silence for a suggestion to be made.

"We could cut off one of the girl's fingers and send it to Tywin Lannister." Steffon proposed coldly, without any emotions in his voice. Unlike his older brother, who had his every thought (especially those about Denys' unfitness to rule Duskendale) written all over his face, one could never guess what was happening beyond the mask of stone that was Steffon Hollard's face. He spoke about delicious food with the same expression as about spilling blood of a young girl. Symon annoyed Denys to no end, but he preferred him to Steffon, who slightly terrified him. "Each passing day that he doesn't comply with our demands, we cut off another finger. That might persuade him to hurry and accept the inevitable."

As revolting as he found his good-brother's idea, Denys couldn't come up with an objection that wouldn't make him look weak. Losing a finger wouldn't ruin the girl completely, but it would be proof enough that they wouldn't hesitate to harm Tywin Lannister's daughter if the Hand failed to yield to their demands. They had gone too far, crossed too many lines, to withdraw now. He had to see this through.

"Fine." He nodded at Steffon. "One finger a day."

"And what if Lady Lannister runs out of fingers?" Symon cut in mockingly.

"Pity." Denys deadpanned, determined to silence the man. "She sewed so skilfully."

Symon's stunned expression was worth putting up with his blabbering. It felt great to finally put him in his place.

"I agree with my lord husband."

The four men turned to the only woman in the room. Serala smiled lovingly at him and he found himself returning her smile lazily. He loved bathing in her affectionate gazes, her lustful ones even more.

"She does sew so skilfully." Her green eyes never left his. "It would indeed be a pity to cut off her delicate fingers. Once they are gone, they won't grow back. She will be considered damaged and therefore unsuitable for the role of the king's bride."

Denys raised his eyebrows at her warningly. She ought to know better than to question his decision. Did she really think that the thought had not crossed his mind? Tywin Lannister would be furious if his daughter emerged from this ordeal in any way damaged, but he had only himself to blame for forcing their hand. His wealth and power would guarantee his daughter a fine match, no matter how many fingers she had on her hands.

However, he nodded his permission to Serala to speak her mind, hoping deep down she might have a smarter, cleaner solution at hand. She had the luxury to appear weak; he didn't.

"I suggest that we cut off her hair instead of her fingers." Her tone sounded commanding rather than hesitant. "She will not be damaged permanently and Tywin Lannister will still get his warning."

Denys could have kissed her right there and then, but he reined his enthusiasm in, deciding to save it for their bedroom. Why had he doubted her? Serala had proved time and time again she was the only one in this town he could truly rely on. Her intelligence had just saved him from having to mutilate a young girl. Denys was willing to go far to get what he wanted, but some things he just didn't have the stomach for. In all truth, he was going to let Steffon stain his hands with Cersei Lannister's blood; it didn't seem like the younger Hollard brother would have minded anyway.

"Serala has a point." He nodded, turning to Steffon. "Cutting off her hair will do."

Steffon nodded, neither pleased nor displeased. Out of the corner of his eye, Denys saw Symon frown, but the black-haired man for once kept his mouth shut. His scowl probably had more to do with the smartest plan coming from Serala than the plan itself. It was another reason why Denys loathed his good-brother; Symon despised Serala because she worshipped gods other than the Seven and because he believed she didn't treat him with respect he thought he deserved. Denys knew it was only a matter of Symon's wounded pride, because Serala had told him herself that Symon had made advances at her and she had spurned him. When he had asked her whether she had been tempted by Symon's offer, she had grinned and said: " _I might have been, but then I thought of the look on his face when I refused him and I just couldn't miss that opportunity. I wish you could have witnessed it; his face was redder than my hair._ "

Denys looked at Serala again. She was gazing at him in anticipation.

Cutting off hair was a less messy ordeal than cutting off fingers. He would be there to witness it.

Denys passed his good-brothers by and offered his arm to his wife. Despite her long green gown, Serala kept up with his pace easily as he led the way.

Two guards stood at the door that led downstairs to the dungeons; they let them pass with a slight bow of head. They descended about two dozen stairs until they found themselves in a narrow corridor, surrounded by cells on each side. Only the furthest cell contained a prisoner, precious as though the locks of her hair were actually pure gold.

Denys grinned to himself in amusement. They had come to steal it.

* * *

The last time Cersei had shed so many tears, Mother had just died.

Every time the thought crossed her mind, her sobs intensified, until her whole body was shaking and she wept until utter exhaustion pacified her cries. Then she would catch her breath and the cycle would begin anew.

Her hair. Her beautiful long hair. Golden like the sun. Her pride.

It was _gone_.

Her head felt too light and too heavy at the same time for her shoulders to bear. She raised her hands to her scalp so often, hoping desperately to find the golden locks still in place, only to break into another wave of tears when her fists grasped air. Jaime's hair was longer than hers now. If she didn't wear a gown, she could easily be mistaken for a boy. She had wished for years that she had been born a son, but now that she at least looked like one, she couldn't stand the image of herself her mind came up with. Jaime would find her beautiful even if she was one-eyed and limped, but what about Rhaegar? Her prince, her beautiful prince, would scorn her if he saw her like this. At least he wasn't there to witness her shame.

Her hair. Her beautiful hair. Gone. _Gone…_

 _For fuck's sake, girl, it's just hair!_

Instinctively, Cersei put a hand to her mouth, as though she had just hiccupped. She did _not_ swear. Not even in her thoughts. It was improper.

 _I'm hearing things._ She swallowed hard; that sounded too frightening for her liking, so she tried to rationalize it. _I am still shaken. That must be it._

 _You have been shaking so much over such an insignificant matter that_ _ **I'm**_ _going to be sick._

That wasn't good. One voice inside her head seemed to be replying to another. Had she gone mad?

 _Don't worry, the only one who is in danger of going mad here is me._

Who had even _thought_ that?

 _ **Alright, I'll swear every time I fucking say something to make it easier for you. You can speak like a proper little girl and I think we'll have no trouble understanding each other. Shit.**_

Cersei struggled to pacify her breathing, but the shallow breaths she drew weren't enough to fulfil her need for air, so she kept breathing in a wild rhythm her lungs could barely keep up with. She was hearing a voice – a not very mannerly voice, for that matter – inside her head. It all pointed towards the conclusion that it was not _her_ voice, even though it sounded like her. Because thoughts didn't sound like anyone, they were just…well, _thought._

 _ **Of course I'm not you – cunt. You didn't really think all your smart decisions were actually your fucking ideas, did you?**_

Nobody talked to Cersei Lannister like that, even if it was a voice inside her own head. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the words she meant to 'say', all the while glaring at the back of her eyelids.

 _I am smart and I don't need you. Go away._

 _ **Believe me, if I could, I would. I'm not thrilled about being stuck inside a bloody girl of ten.**_

Cersei frowned indignantly.

 _I am one-and-ten._

 _ **Just my fucking luck.**_ The voice seemed to ignore her. _**Still, after all this time, it's better than nothing.**_

Cersei opened her eyes to roll them and then closed them again, focusing on the questions she meant to ask.

 _If you are not me, then who are you? And how have you even got inside my head?_

 _ **You may address me as 'Your Grace'.**_ The voice said, but before it could pick the next swear word, Cersei snorted out loud.

 _I am_ _ **not**_ _calling a voice inside my head 'Your Grace'. I demand you tell me who you are._

 _ **And what will you do if I refuse?**_

After a few moments of furious silence, Cersei realized there was nothing she could do. She couldn't threaten the voice into submission. Father could not enter her head and punish the voice for its insolence.

 _ **As for your other question,**_ the voice continued casually, knowing it had won, _ **I am here because you have stuck your fingers where you should have. Quite literally.**_

 _What do you mean by that?_ She asked before she could stop herself.

No matter how many times she repeated the question, there was no reply. She was on the brink of concluding the entire conversation had been a fragment of her imagination when the voice spoke again.

 _ **While I'm glad to see you are managing to keep track of the conversation without me having to bother to swear when the circumstances do**_ not _ **call for it, I am not answering you until you address me properly. And you dare accuse me of poor manners.**_

Cersei bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't want to indulge the voice's arrogance, but curiosity made her swallow her pride.

 _What do you mean by that, Your Grace?_ If she were speaking out loud, she would be only a note far from snarling.

 _ **There you go. Was that so hard?**_

Cersei failed to bite back a 'Yes'.

 _ **Well, get used to it.**_ The voice said nonchalantly. _**There are worse consequences of spilling your blood left and right in the presence of dragons.**_

For a moment, Cersei couldn't grasp what the voice was aiming at. Then she remembered her first Small Council meeting, whose end she had never witnessed. Because she had been busy marking the throne and one of the dragons' skulls with her blood.

 _It was…When I touched the skull…_

 _ **A connection was made in blood.**_ The voice finished. _**Blood is powerful. And bones can last for a very long time, preserving secrets inside them.**_

Cersei took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what she had just heard.

 _It has been months since that happened._ Not without struggle, she repressed the resurfacing terror she had felt in those moments. _Why haven't I heard you until now?_

 _ **Because I had no intention of letting you know I was here. You would have been more inclined to listen to me if you thought my plans were actually yours. But there was only as much of your wailing about your hair I could take. It would have made even that fool Baelor lose his temper.**_

It was impossibly hard to argue with someone one couldn't glare or scream at or have them restrained and thrown into the dungeon under Casterly Rock.

 _I did_ _ **not**_ _wail._ Cersei snapped at the voice, wishing she could glare at it properly. It deserved it. _Not for as long as you claim I did._

 _ **Perhaps not, but it felt like a bloody century to me.**_

She decided that discussing this particular matter was a waste of time. She had _not_ cried. Much.

 _So you were actually inside the skull?_ She changed the subject as subtly as she could. _Is that why I felt I was being watched?_

Silence.

Cersei grumbled under her breath. _Your Grace?_

 _ **Yes. I'm glad to see you're finally starting to use your mind.**_

Biting her lip, Cersei forced herself to ignore that remark.

 _And how did you get there?_ She intentionally left out the title again, but the voice remained stubborn and refused to speak until she gave in. _Your Grace?_

 _ **When I died – as a human – the bond I shared with my dragon kept me tied to it.**_ The voice explained. _**I kept living through it, like a part of its mind, like I now reside within you. Its other riders were of my choosing. There weren't many worthy of that honour.**_

Even against her will, Cersei found herself hanging on the voice's every word. If it was telling the truth, the voice was more than one hundred years old. Whoever it had been, it had ridden a dragon. It had probably been a king or a queen ( _she hoped to gods it had been a queen_ ), judging by its demands to be addressed as royalty.

 _But where are the other riders? Why do I only hear you? Your Grace?_

 _ **From my observations, I have learned that this kind of bond only forms between a dragon and its first rider.**_ The voice replied. _**Other riders died and moved on to whatever lies beyond this life. The rest of us remained here, whether we wanted to or not.**_

Cersei thought she'd caught the slightest note of bitterness in that last sentence, but with thoughts, it was hard to be sure. What she _had_ caught was that when spoken to with respect, the voice was quite generous with answers. Cersei found that a little suspicious, but decided not to complain until she knew more. Even if the voice was lying, it did know how to tell a compelling story.

 _ **Thank you for the compliment.**_ The tone of the voice's thoughts had a smugness to it Cersei didn't appreciate. _**As for your concern as to why I'm answering your questions, it's because you wouldn't stop pestering me if I didn't. You might even grow inclined to listen to me. Since I'm stuck with you,**_ _ **it's in my interest that you escape Duskendale and return to King's Landing alive as much as it is in yours. Does that put your mind at ease?**_

 _Not really._ Cersei felt the speed of her pulse increasing. Instinctively, she swallowed saliva down nervously. _Can you always tell what I am thinking? Your Grace?_

 _ **Even if I can, who would I tell?**_

 _Fair point_ , she supposed, feeling her tense body relax slightly. But not entirely. _But can you?_

 _ **I don't know.**_ The voice admitted outright, as if the lack of knowledge on the matter didn't concern it. It had even overlooked the fact she had not addressed it with a title. _**Usually I don't**_ want _ **to hear what you are thinking and then I**_ can _ **shut your thoughts out. I don't know what would happen if I tried to pry into something you wanted to hide.**_

The answer didn't relieve Cersei's concerns, but she couldn't really do anything but hope that the intruder inside her mind would respect her privacy. Desperate for a distraction from the matter, she turned her attention to other questions she wanted answers to.

 _So, are there…other voices in other skulls? Your Grace?_

 _ **In some.**_ If the voice was a person in the flesh, Cersei imagined it being a dark silhouette in the distance that was shrugging its shoulders evenly. _**Some are empty. I am not the first one to inhabit another's body.**_

She didn't like the voice's choice of words. It made it seem she was just a vessel for whoever the voice had used to be.

 _ **Whether you and I like it or not, I am here. So, if you are done with your questions…**_

 _Why haven't I heard of this?_ She cut the voice off in the middle of the sentence. _Who else has been…inhabited by…a voice? Your Grace?_

 _ **It's not like anyone is inclined to admit to hearing voices no-one else can hear.**_ The voice said in a lecturing tone. _**Still, if you want an example, you need not look further than your prince's late father.**_

That came as a surprise to Cersei.

 _King Aerys was inhabited by a voice too?_

 _ **A few years ago, he cut himself on the throne and decided to pat Syrax's skull with his bloodied hand.**_ The voice said sarcastically, but then became serious again. _**Rhaenyra's paranoia affected his mind. He would have become far worse than he was if he hadn't died.**_

 _Rhaenyra?_ Cersei's heart beat faster at the mention of one of her favourite Targaryen queens.

 _ **A spoiled brat, that one, and mad with loss by the end.**_ The voice deadpanned. _**Her father got the throne because of the custom that a male heir always comes before a female heir. If male and female heirs had been made equal, her aunt Rhaenys would have been Queen and her daughter after her. In any case, Rhaenyra would have never sat on the Iron throne.**_

Cersei felt personally offended by the voice's harsh judgement of Rhaenyra Targaryen. She had always been fond of the woman who had fought back against the unfair treatment of female heirs. If Rhaenrya had won – truly won – perhaps Casterly Rock would be Cersei's birthright, not Jaime's.

 _When men aspire to rise in station, they are admired for it._ She snorted crossly. _But when a woman wants to rule in her own right, she is scorned for her ambitions._

 _ **Ambitious men – and women – must know how to play the game, otherwise they die like flies. Aegon was a spoiled brat too, mind you.**_ _**It's hard to say which of them was less fit to rule.**_

Cersei felt a little better now that Aegon II had received his portion of slanders too. Contrary to general belief, being a man didn't make him a better ruler.

 _ **If your curiosity is satisfied for now,**_ the voice interrupted the thoughtful silence, _**We can start planning your escape.**_

Cersei did have many more questions, but decided to set them aside for now. Escaping Duskendale was priority. She could talk to her…partner once she was free. She did still harbour some doubts about the voice trustworthiness, but whoever it was, it was the only ally she had. Perhaps it could indeed help her escape Duskendale. That should prove whether she could rely on its advice or not.

 _What do you have in mind?_ She asked.

Her question was met with silence.

She rolled her eyes without even opening them. _Your Grace?_

 _ **The next time you are brought food, ask to speak to Lady Darklyn.**_

She raised her eyebrows instinctively. _Why? Cutting off my hair was her idea. She's not going to help me._

 _ **Lord Darklyn's initial plan was to cut off your fingers.**_ The voice pointed out. _**When they locked you down here, she told you that whatever happened to you, you needed to know it could be much worse. By suggesting they cut off your hair, she saved you from living the rest of your life with a few fingers less. Hair grows back. Fingers don't.**_

Cersei clenched her fists mechanically, checking whether she still had all ten of her fingers. When put like that, Lady Darklyn's actions were seen in a different light.

 _But how can you be sure?_

 _ **She strikes me as a smart woman.**_ The voice said as if that was the only explanation necessary. _**Her husband is fighting a lost battle and she knows that. She is hoping that helping you might save her from whatever punishment your father must have already come up with. If you do get a chance to ask for her to be spared, do it. You need smart people on your side and they are becoming more difficult to come by.**_

Cersei still wasn't convinced, but since she didn't have any other ideas, she decided she might as well follow the voice's plan. She would speak to Lady Darklyn and hope the voice was right about the red-haired woman. And that she hadn't gone completely mad because she followed the instructions of an unknown voice residing inside her mind. The voice claimed sharing mind with Rhaenrya had slowly been driving King Aerys mad; at least Cersei's voice seemed level-headed and sane, if far from pleasant company.

 _ **Well, I was never really known for being good-humoured in my previous life, why change now?**_

Cersei sighed and rubbed her eyes as they got used to the weak light in the cell again. Was there a way for her to ensure she never ever bled again?

* * *

 _A woman lay in the snow, breathing shallowly, as if every breath might be her last. The locks of her hair, bound together in a long, snake-like braid, appeared white under many snowflakes that covered them, almost as pale as her skin. She was wearing dark armour that fit tightly against her body, hugging her curves sophisticatedly, in a way no gown ever could. She was stunningly beautiful, even in her final moments, magnificent as an eternal goddess._

 _Only one worshipper knelt at her side as she died. Where she was silver and black, like moonlight in the night, he was all golden, like the sun. Words fell from their lips, but the wind that roared around the pair made them unintelligible. They must have struck a chord, because the woman found the strength to raise her hands and intertwine her fingers with his. She pulled their coupled hands closer and placed a loving kiss on his knuckles, a parting gift. The two were blind to the winter, the cold, the earth, the sky, everything but one another._

 _The man shook his head and made as if to yank his hands out of her grasp, but with strength a woman on the brink of death should not possess, she held his hands pressed against her chest._

" _ **Please.**_ _" She begged him, tears forming in her eyes. "_ _ **Please.**_ _"_

 _Two swords lay nearby on the white ground, their blades crossed like siblings, like lovers. There was no blood on them._

 _Until there was._

 _In a heartbeat, the man ran both swords through the woman's stomach._

 _For a split of a second, just before the blade had struck, her eyes had widened in suddenly awakened terror, her lips shaping words: "No, Vis…"_

 _The words turned into scream that was swallowed by the storm, as were the man's sobs. His tears soaked the blades, mixed with her blood and froze on her skin, making it seem she was covered in rubies._

 _The snow became smeared in red._

 _The wind grew colder. The storm grew stronger. The day grew darker._

" _ **Not blood.**_ _" The woman's whisper went unheard, but it was clear on her blue lips. "_ _ **Not strong enough. Blood within blood.**_ _"_

 _A shadow rose from the spilled blood, like a young tree towering above its roots, reaching for the sun. But there was no sun in the sky, not there, not anywhere._

 _The man reached for the swords, but the shadow was faster._

" _ **Blood is powerful, boy.**_ _" A voice so powerful not even roars of the storm could match it spoke. Old and young, male and female, dead and alive, all at the same time. "_ _ **You should have known better than to spill it so carelessly.**_ _"_

 _The man died, struck by one of the swords, the blade splitting his heart in half._

 _The shadow took the man's place and leaned closer to the woman, as though it would kiss her._

" _ **Thank you, mother.**_ _" It whispered against her lips, making it impossible to distinguish whether it spoke affectionately or mockingly. "_ _ **Your children will join you soon.**_ _"_

 _Tears fell from her eyes and turned into ice on her cheeks._

 _The snow remained red._

* * *

 **A/N: Just in case you had trouble following the part in Cersei's POV, at the beginning of that "conversation", Cersei couldn't really discern between her thoughts and 'the voice's thoughts', so it's all written in** _italic_ **. Later on, Cersei's thoughts were written in** _italic_ **, and the voice was "speaking" in _bold italic_. Just wanted to make that clear and I didn't want to write it in the first A/N so I don't spoil the chapter. That's all for this update, I hope you liked it :)**


	11. XI

**Before we continue with the story, a shout out to _kaxipoptos_ , whose advice has helped this chapter come to life. I'm just giving credit where credit is due.**

 **I hope you'll enjoy the chapter :)**

"Milord, milady."

A shallow, unnoticeable sigh of relief escaped Serala's lips. She raised her head casually, turning her attention away from the food on her plate, but she knew the rest of the food would not reach her mouth. She found it hard to force anything but wine her throat these days, with the threat of death (slow and painful in her nightmares) looming over Duskendale like clouds lingering in the sky, announcing the inevitable coming of a storm.

A blonde serving girl stood next to the table at which she and Denys were breaking their fast with her head bowed. With her eyes downcast, she was unaware she had their attention, which caused the silence to stretch unnecessarily, unnerving both the lord and the lady of the castle.

"What is it?" Denys snapped at the girl impatiently.

Ever since the vast army had appeared in front of Duskendale's walls, he had been prone to such brisk outbursts that betrayed his apprehension. It took all of Serala's carefully restrained self-control not to roll her eyes at his behaviour. He was clearly cracking under pressure; she wouldn't mind watching him squirm in fear of men far greater than him if it didn't put her in danger too. If she was capable of keeping her composure in front of others, he should be able to do the same.

"Lady La-a-nnister, m-milord," The girl stuttered bashfully, unable to hide her fear of her master's reaction, "She has asked to speak to Lady Darklyn."

Instinctively, Serala's hand went to the small pocket vowed into the skirts of her dress, hidden amongst threads of lace. She let out another discreet sigh of relief when she felt the solidity of glass underneath the fabric. It wasn't that hard to steal the vial during her latest visit to the maester's chamber; Denys had sent her there himself when she'd complained about a feigned headache. His concern was gratifying; it did make her regret the necessity of her actions, but it didn't sway her.

"What does she want?" Her husband asked curtly, blessedly blind to her actions.

"I…I don't know, milord." The girl's voice was barely louder than whisper. "She did not say."

"You may go now." Serala cut in before Denys could take his frustration out on the girl. Her eyes returned to her meal, ignoring her husband's glare.

"You will not go see her."

Serala wished she could let out a sarcastic snort, but restrained herself. She did put a piece of bread into her mouth, just in case, and forced her jaw to rise and fall in a slow rhythm. _As though I'd married a child, not a man._

"She is our prisoner." It was laughable how he tried to convince himself he was in power when in reality he was only a scared mouse covering before a hungry cat. "She will treat us with respect or I might consider that Steffon was right and that cutting off her fingers would teach her a lesson better than cutting off her hair."

"Perhaps cold stone and an empty belly have made her realize pride will not help her in her situation and she wants to offer us to speak to her father on our behalf." Serala made an innocent observation and drank a gulp of water. "But if you command so, I will not hear her out."

She didn't even have to look at Denys to know he was changing his mind. In his current state, he was all too easy to manipulate.

"You think a Lannister would swallow her pride?" He chuckled tensely. "Unlikely."

Serala shrugged her shoulders, feigning uncertainty.

"She is a young girl used to silken sheets and food in her belly." She pointed out softly, concealing her disagreement with him beneath the timidity of her tone. "No amount of pride will make enduring hunger and discomfort easier for her."

After a brief contemplation of her words, he nodded.

She smirked inwardly; she had him right where she wanted him.

"If she wants to improve her situation, she has to give us something in return." He waved his hand dismissively, trying to appear nonchalant. "Let her know that."

He had given her his permission – and with that signed his doom.

After finishing her meal, Serala headed for the dungeons, her steps quick, but not too quick. There was no reason to rush for someone hidden behind the high walls that separated Dun Fort from the new king's army, confident that their plans could not be thwarted. She had to play her part right until the very end; even the smallest crack in her mask could cost her everything.

As she passed by the guards and descended down the stairs, she wondered what had inspired Cersei Lannister to decipher her message. Had she even connected the dots in the form of numerous hints Serala had provided or did she only want to ask for more food or a silken sheet to wrap herself in? Did she even realize how much Serala's fate depended on her goodwill? Once she was within her father's reach, Tywin Lannister would punish everyone who had had a hand in her abduction. Serala's only hope was to have a hand in her liberation as well; perhaps that would be enough to cancel out her previous 'crime' in the Tywin Lannister's eyes. She needed the girl to convince the Hand to spare her any punishment he had in mind for Denys and the rest of the rebels.

But she didn't intend to let the girl know that kind of power rested in her hands. It was better that she believed she needed Serala as much as Serala needed her.

"I've been told you'd asked to speak with me." She said evenly as she paused at the entrance to the cell that held the girl, not wanting to reveal her true intentions until she was certain she and the Lady Lannister were on the same page. "What do you want?"

The prisoner raised her eyes to hers; Serala had never seen a girl who looked less like one. The paleness of her skin was clear even in the weak light, making the dark bags under her eyes even more prominent. Her dress and her short hair were covered in dust and dirt. She seemed thinner, even though she had been fed only bread and water only for a few days – or perhaps it was just the matter of her chest not swelling with Lannister pride. Not even her eyes remained unchanged. But unlike the rest of her, the girl's eyes flashed with golden spark that seemed to burst into flames as she stood up, having lost none of her gracefulness to confinement.

"What do _you_ want, Lady Darklyn?" She asked when their eyes met again, gazing at Serala unflinchingly. Fingers of her unchained hand curled casually around one of the iron bars that separated them. "Why didn't you let them do _worse_ to me?"

 _So, she had figured it out._

Serala took a breath, but before she could utter a single word, the girl spoke again.

"There are two possible answers, I guess." Her lips curled into what would be a sweet smile, if it wasn't so... _excessively_ sweet. "Either you have grown extremely fond of me…or you want something from me."

The noticeable pause she had made in her speech and the knowing look she shot at Serala told her the girl was aware it was the latter at hand.

"So, what it is you want?"

The girl was clever, Serala had to admit. It would make striking a good deal more difficult, but in all honesty, she was tired of fools.

"I believe we both want the same." She returned the girl's too sweet a smile. "Leave Duskendale alive and unscathed."

The girl nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

"For that to come to pass, you need me and I need you." Serala stepped foward until only iron separated her from Lady Lannister. The girl never stopped locking eyes with her, despite the discomfort such gesture surely caused her as she was forced to look up. "Don't you agree?"

The girl's smile widened, to Serala's unpleasant surprise.

"Not quite." She said, moving away from the bars, but only for an arm's length. "I could still be set free without any interference on your part, but once my father takes this town, I will be all that stands between you and death."

Her words left Serala too stunned to answer. How had she let control slip through her fingers? Or rather, how had a girl of one-and-ten – a girl who suddenly seemed too shrewd for her age – taken it?

"I will convince my father to spare you." The girl's voice broke the silence. "You will help me escape. Once we are free, you will join me in King's Landing as my lady-in-waiting."

Of all things the girl could have asked for, Serala could never have predicted _this_.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but the girl stared directly into her eyes, showing no sign of deceit. Even the false smile was gone from her lips; she was utterly serious.

"Do we have a deal?" She asked firmly, letting Serala know her offer would not stand forever.

It wasn't like Serala had much of a choice. Returning to Myr after Denys' inevitable fall wasn't an option. Serving Lady Lannister was beyond doubt a much better fate than begging for food in the street, even if it meant she would have to obey the girl's every whim. For more reasons than one, it seemed Cersei Lannister was a queen in the making; soon enough, she would have to bow before her anyway.

She nodded. "We have a deal."

For a moment, the girl's mask of confidence splintered and astonishment slipped through the cracks, as if she had not expected Serala to accept her terms.

It raised Serala's suspicions instantly. Did the girl have another ally within the castle, someone who had helped her devise this plan, a tad too cunning for a girl of one-and-ten to come up with on her own? If so, why hadn't that ally, whoever it might be, helped her escape then? Why did the girl even want her as her lady-in-waiting? Was this some kind of a scheme connived by Serala's enemies, most likely Symon Hollard?

"I am not easily impressed," She said casually, but unlike her tone, her gaze was as sharp as a blade, "But you are a remarkably convincing negotiator for your age."

For a moment, the implication hung in the tense silence between them. Then the girl smiled and curtsied gracefully, like an actress bathing in a wave of applause. But when she stood up straight again, her expression was stern, her stare piercing.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have left me in a cell with too much time to think on my hands."

The intensity of her words could not be feigned. Other things – unpleasant things – had been plaguing the young girl's mind. Serala could guess which matter troubled her the most, but bringing it up now would serve no purpose, so she let it be.

"Should everything go as planned, I will make sure not to make that mistake again." _Speaking of…_ "But first, you need to escape Duskendale and nobody can suspect I had a hand in it."

The girl's expression softened slightly, but remained determined.

"What do you have in mind?"

A few minutes later, Serala left the girl in her cell with an escape plan and means to accomplish it. Her part was mostly done and yet she could feel the burden of her decision weighing on her shoulders more heavily than ever. There was no coming back from this. If the girl escaped, Serala's fate would rest with her. If she failed, another opportunity to free her would not come. When Tywin Lannister inevitably breached the walls of Duskendale, Serala would pay the price for taking part in the rebellion.

"What did she want?"

Denys' voice startled her out of her thoughts. She took a deep breath to pull herself together and turned to face her husband.

"She is cold, hungry and uncomfortable."

' _Just like I said she was._ ' Remained unspoken.

She forced the corners of her lips to curl upwards, like a promise of a smirk. "Enough that she is willing to write to her father and ask him to end his campaign. I was just about to bring her parchment and a quill."

That lured a satisfied grin to Denys' lips.

"Excellent." His hand glided down her cheek and pulled her face to his to place a passionate kiss on her lips.

She forced herself to return it with same enthusiasm, even if on the inside she was distancing herself from him. Denys wasn't the worst husband a woman could have and he had been kind and good to her on most occasions. But his pride had become a threat to her life and she was not the kind of a woman to die for a man. She had to look after herself first; nobody else would.

"It will be sent tonight with the hair." Denys said as he pulled away from her. "Give her something better to eat and furs to protect her from the chill."

This was the most difficult part, as far as Denys was concerned. Serala schooled her expression into absolute indifference.

"Should I ask the guards for the keys of her chains?" She shrugged her shoulders at his questioning gaze. "She has been chained for days, which I admit I find barbaric. She is not a beast and neither are we."

Although the request didn't seem to have raised Denys' suspicions, he didn't look convinced.

"And what if she escapes?"

"As long as she's not satiated, she won't have the strength to run away." Serala let out a soft chuckle, but then her voice lost all of its humour. "And if the guards can be outwitted by a girl, then perhaps they are not suitable for their roles, are they?"

That reasoning seemed to have persuaded him. The thought of a girl – a woman, a weaker being in his eyes – outsmarting grown men like himself was insulting to him, as was his own fear that it might happen. He would brush it aside to keep his delusion of his own superiority standing. Serala bit her lip to prevent contempt from showing on her face.

"You're right." He nodded. "I will come with you."

She smiled indulgently. "As you wish."

If Lady Lannister was surprised to see Denys at Serala's side when they returned to the dungeons, she didn't show it. She wrote the letter without complaints and was rewarded for her good behaviour. When the shackle was removed, Serala noticed the girl's skin was torn at her wrist, red and tender. She held the sore hand pressed against her torso like a wounded pet, trying not to wince in pain as she moved it.

"Good girl." Denys grinned widely as his eyes roamed between the letter in his hand and Lady Lannister's face. "I'm sorry this part of our acquaintance has been so unpleasant, but it will all be over soon. I will get what I want and you will be free."

The girl's only reply was an icy glare. Denys chuckled and turned on his heel, offering his arm to Serala. She accepted it and followed him out of the dungeons, keeping her eyes fixed on the corridor in front of her, refusing to indulge the need to lock eyes with Lady Lannister one more time.

"I will send a servant-boy with furs and food for the girl later." She addressed the guards as she and Denys passed them by. "Let him through."

The men nodded a heartbeat too late. They wouldn't dare scoff at her, but they still felt little to no respect for her. A woman and a foreigner – they wouldn't love or respect her even if she were their precious Maid herself.

It was of little matter. Everything was in place. The girl had everything she needed, all the help Serala could give her. All she could do now was to wait for the sundown. Everyone would be too busy watching the army outside the castle; nobody would pay attention to what was happening inside. That was what she told herself constantly, as if it were a litany; hopefully the gods were listening.

* * *

The sundown was nearly upon them. There was still no answer, as if the Darklyns were mocking them by dragging the negotiations out until the last possible moment.

Whatever their decision, Tywin had no intention of letting Denys Darklyn live.

The man would die, from poison or blade, Tywin couldn't care less. His filthy lies would not spread throughout the realm and infect gullible ears. There would be no stain on Jaime and Cersei's reputation, no doubts about their parentage. They were Lannisters, children of Tywin, his legacy. The queen and the lord.

( _He could see it in his mind's eye, the day a son of Lannister blood claimed the Iron throne as his own, with a golden haired queen at his side. Cersei's son and Jaime's daughter, fierce and unyielding like true lions.)_

However…

As much as Tywin hated to admit it, the possibility that Cersei might not make it out of Duskendale alive needed to be considered. It would postpone his plans to see a Lannister on the Iron throne for a generation. Inconvenient, but bearable. But who could take Cersei's place as Rhaegar's bride?

He didn't waste a single thought on girls from lower Houses; only a lady from a great House would do. Steffon Baratheon and Quellon Greyjoy ( _if the Greyjoys, as pathetic as they were, striving to be more than a bunch of pirates, could be considered a great House_ ) had fathered no daughters. The Martells, descendants of Prince Maron and Daenaerys Targaryen, had a few drops of dragon blood flowing through their veins; Princess Elia of Dorne was the closest thing to a bride of the blood Westeros had to offer, but she was of too fragile health, which could prevent her from bearing royal heirs. A foreign queen would not sit well with either the nobility or the smallfolk, even if she came from the restored Valyria itself. The Tyrells were out of the question; they were too ambitious already. Rickard Stark also had a daughter, but the girl was rumoured to be wild, with no regard for propriety and authority. Hoster Tully had two daughters and Jon Arryn had numerous nieces of suitable age as well – one of them might do as a replacement, albeit one that would pale in comparison to the main choice. There simply wasn't a girl in the Seven Kingdoms that embodied everything a queen should be as perfectly as Cersei.

Thinking about spare brides for Rhaegar reminded him of the matter of Jaime's future bride, which also still remained unresolved. As a Lannister and the heir to Casterly Rock, Jaime's value as a husband was second only to Rhaegar's; he would not marry a girl unworthy of him. Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark were cast aside immediately for the same reasons Tywin didn't consider them suitable brides for the new king. Offering Jaime to the Tyrells might leave the wrong impression and cause them to think they were equal to the Lannisters.

( _Tywin might offer Tyrion to them, if only to savour the look on Olenna Tyrell's face when he made the proposal. The thought almost made him smirk, but he caught himself before he could find a reason for satisfaction in his younger son._ )

That left the Tullys and the Arryns. Which alliance would benefit House Lannister more?

He was not given a chance to weigh one against the other, for he was snapped out of his musings by the sound of a servant clearing his throat.

"Milord," The man bowed when Tywin looked at him, "Ser Arthur Dayne is here to see you."

Tywin stood up immediately, all thoughts about Jaime's future forgotten. Arthur Dayne would only be there if he'd been sent by Rhaegar and Rhaegar would only send him if…

"My lord Hand." Ser Arthur stood between Tywin and the entrance to the tent, blocking the Hand's way. Dressed in white armour, with Dawn's hilt peering from behind his back like a snake about to bite, he looked ready for battle. "The king has sent me to…"

"If my daughter had been released, she would have come in your stead." Tywin snarled, trying to keep himself from unceremoniously pushing the knight out of his way. He would save his wrath for the Darklyns. "Where is the king?"

"The king has sent me to tell you not to appear in his presence until you are in the right state of mind." Ser Arthur replied calmly, but his tone and posture were unyielding. He wouldn't let him pass.

If Tywin wasn't so tremendously enraged by Ser Arthur for wasting his time, he would be impressed by the lack of fear on the knight's face. Rhaegar's closest friend was one of the rare few who could look in the eyes of Tywin Lannister and not quiver in terror.

 _Rhaegar's closest friend,_ it suddenly crossed Tywin's mind, _who had a sister who was still unmarried._

He had never laid eyes on Ashara Dayne, but the lady was rumoured to rival even the legendary beauty of Shiera Seastar. She might not be from one of the great Houses, but her brother's friendship with the king could do more in her favour than any title or wealth. Also, unlike Cersei, she was already of age, being only a year or two younger than Rhaegar. So early in his reign, Rhaegar needed to secure his claim to the throne; an heir would ensure his line continued and provide the Realm with much needed stability after Aerys' whimsical rule.

Ashara Dayne wouldn't be a bad choice for a queen, but she wouldn't come before a Lannister. If Cersei returned from Duskendale alive and unharmed, Lady Dayne would have to be removed from the equation. Conveniently, in doing so, he would kill two birds with the same stone. While an alliance with Starfall wouldn't be as beneficial to the House Lannister as an alliance with the Eerie or Riverrun, it wouldn't be without use. Ser Arthur might be more inclined to use his friendship with the king to further Tywin's goals if his sister was under Tywin's thumb. Jaime would get a lovely bride and Cersei's greatest rival in her quest for the crown would be out of the way.

As the pieces fit together perfectly to form a flawless strategy, Tywin was finally able to unclench his fists. He would write to Lord Dayne as soon as he dealt with the current issue; it was only the matter in whose name he would be asking for Lady Dayne's hand in marriage.

"I want to hear Lord Darklyn's answer." He said so calmly so unexpectedly Ser Arthur's violet eyes widened in surprise.

Tywin returned his gaze without blinking, keeping his thoughts concealed behind the icy façade. Finally, the knight concluded Lord Lannister was 'in the right state of mind' and gestured to the Hand to follow him. They didn't speak as they neared the king's tent, but just before they entered, the silver-haired man turned to him.

"Her hair." He said solemnly. "That's their answer."

Tywin didn't fully understand his meaning until he laid eyes on it. Cersei's hair, long and gold like Joanna's had been, lay on the table in front of Rhaegar, whose eyes were fixed on a piece of parchment in his hands.

The rage returned with a roar of blood in Tywin's ears, making him see crimson. His hands were grasping air in the attempt to grip the (currently) unreachable neck of Denys Darklyn. How dare that pathetic fool? How dare he lay a hand on Tywin's daughter?

"What does it say?" He spat through gritted teeth, closer to losing control since…since Joanna had asked him to help her fool Aerys. How could anyone make such utterly stupid choices, knowing what punishment awaited them in case they failed? ( _And positioned against Tywin Lannister, everyone could count with failure._ )

The king raised his head to look at him and handed the note to Tywin without a word. The Hand accepted it with a nod and read it. Though it was undoubtedly Cersei's handwriting, he couldn't believe that, after all the progress he thought she'd made, she could be so utterly foolish to write such pathetic nonsense to him.

' _I beg you, Father, tell your men to retreat. Please, I want to go home._ ' He could nearly hear her snivelling like a child. He despised her weakness. Joanna had never been so weak. She would never bow to her enemies, never allow them to see her beg. What was worse, the letter had reached Rhaegar first. How was ever going to be manipulated into bowing to her now? He would always see her as a pitiful child, never a queen.

"You have sent for your forces in the West." Rhaegar said suddenly, interrupting Tywin's train of thoughts. "How long until they arrive?"

Tywin took a deep breath and forced himself to slip back into the form of a calm, calculating strategist. Quickly, he searched through his memories for the answer to the king's question. The last time he had heard from Kevan, a few days ago, the Lannister army had been crossing into Riverlands.

"A week at least." And that was an optimistic guess.

Rhaegar nodded. He leaned forward and laid his hands on the table, almost close enough to touch one of the golden locks.

"I hoped to resolve this matter peacefully." His voice sounded as if he was speaking to no-one in particular, but after a brief glance at his surroundings, Tywin realized they were alone in the tent. Even Ser Arthur had decided (or had been commanded) to withdraw. "But if I don't give the Realm a display of my strength now, I will have a rebellion on my hands every year."

Tywin couldn't contradict him. After all, intimidating people into obedience was what Tywin Lannister did best.

Rhaegar glanced briefly at the golden mane in front of him with a thoughtful look on his face. There was a momentary spark of conflict in his violet eyes, but then he looked at Tywin again, calm and serious.

"As the Hand, you understand why I must put your daughter's life at risk."

Tywin did understand. It didn't mean he was pleased about it.

"Your Grace must do as he sees fit." _As will I, once the time comes._

"And I will do so." Rhaegar said firmly, his expression lacking any sign of doubt or hesitation. "But in the light of the recent loss I have suffered, I don't want you to think I am indifferent to the loss you might suffer."

It took Tywin a few moments to grasp the meaning of the king's words. Over the years, he had inspired many things in various people: hatred, scorn, respect, jealousy, fear (and love). Rhaegar's eyes were filled with none of those.

Did the king actually _pity_ him? Did he pity – not Lord Lannister or the Warden of the West or the Hand of the King – _the father_? He _dared_?

"If you would rather return to the capital and wait for news there, I understand." Rhaegar continued to speak when shock prevented Tywin from answering. "There are others who can…"

"No." Tywin interrupted him coldly, having been snapped out of the trance by the suggestion that his judgement was in any way clouded. Besides, he needed to make sure Aerys' last words were buried with him and all those who had witnessed them, for Jaime's sake if not Cersei's. Accidents happened; sickness too. There were so many ways to die. "I will see this through, Your Grace, with your permission."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed sceptically. "Are you sure?"

Tywin was offended such a question had even been posed, but reined his temper in. In time, the boy would learn not to question him (or pity him).

"Absolutely."

For a few moments, they stared at each other in silence, the king trying to catch his Hand in a lie and the Hand refusing to give in. It seemed to be a war that could be waged until the end of time, but then both men remembered they had another, more important battle waiting for them. Tywin bowed to the king and left his tent, met by a forceful gust of wind at the exit. Clouds were gathering in the darkening sky above his head; a storm was coming.

At that moment, any other father would pray for his daughter's safety. Tywin cared none for gods or their favour. It was his intelligence and the force of the army around him he would rely on. If death took Cersei tonight despite his efforts, he would make sure it took many, many more along with her. Tonight, Duskendale would be overrun by two storms – drowned in water and blood.

* * *

The sound of steps approaching roused Cersei out of her thoughts.

 _It's time._

Breath stuck in her throat, she raised her head, looking for the source of the noise. Her fingers had already curled around the smooth glass, gripping it so tightly she feared it might break.

A boy came into view. She looked away almost instantly, trying to appear timid and harmless. Still, she had managed to notice he was of approximately her height and built, with passably light blond hair. Also, he had come alone.

Judging by the constant clanking of metal against metal, he was struggling to manage a plate with meat, bread and a goblet of something on it in his left hand, thick furs thrown over his right shoulder and the key of her cell in his right hand. Cersei made no move to help him. Her goal was to get him to practically forget she was there.

He finally managed to unlock the door. He entered and paused on the opposite side of the cell from her. There was another loud clatter as he put the plate on the floor, miraculously without spilling a single drop. Then he started unravelling the furs next to it. Young and gullible as he was, he had even turned his back on her.

Her heart was thundering against her temples, her breaths coming out fast and shallow.

This was it. Her one chance to escape. There was no room for mistakes.

There would _not_ be mistakes.

She jumped at him, grabbed his face with one hand and showed the contents of the vial into his mouth with the other. He started coughing as the liquid glided down his throat, but before he could spit it out, she dropped the vial and pressed her hand against his mouth. Her other hand grabbed his nose, preventing him from breathing. He struggled against her, but she held onto him with every bit of her strength, as if her life depended on it.

It took a few long moments (during which her sweaty palms had started to lose their grip), but the milk of the poppy finally took effect and the boy slowly stopped resisting. She didn't let go of him until she was absolutely certain he was unconscious, not just pretending. As she slowly relaxed her grip and the boy showed no sign of life, her breathing and heartbeat began to pacify.

She had done it. She had overpowered him. She…

 _ **We don't have time for you to bathe in self-praise. Put his clothes on.**_

Trust to the voice inside her head to spoil her happiness. Didn't she deserve one moment of gloating for overpowering a boy when all her life she'd been listening to how men were superior to women?

 _ **You can gloat for an hour when we are out of here if you like. Now, you need to be quick and efficient.**_

Deep down, she knew the voice was right, so she returned to the task at hand. A few minutes later, the person wearing a dress was unconscious and wrapped in furs while the person in breeches was stuffing her mouth with bread and meat like a starved animal.

 _ **Don't forget to leave visible damage on the boy. You need to make it seem you have escaped without any help.**_

Still licking her fingers, Cersei stood up and approached the unconscious boy again. She knelt down next to him and took hold of the back of the blond head. It took her a few moments to realize she had no idea how hard she was supposed to hit to get the desired effect.

 _ **If you want to kill him, hit as hard as you can until you hear his skull crack.**_

 _It would be the smartest solution._ The voice that was Cersei's, but sounded exactly like Father's, stated. _He can't raise the alarm if he's dead._

 _ **That's true. Go ahead then. We don't have much time.**_

She took a deep breath and exhaled. Her fingers gripped the blond head firmly and lifted it as far off the floor as possible.

A blunt sound filled her ears as bone came into contact with stone. But she knew it was not enough.

The blunt sound cut through the silence again. And again. And again.

She couldn't afford to hesitate. The boy was an obstacle on her way to freedom and was to be treated as such. It was nothing personal. And not the first time she had…had a hand in someone's death.

( _But Melara's was_ _the girl's own fault. First she had dared desire Jaime and then she had…_ )

 _ **It's done.**_ The noticeable change in tone told her that it was the voice who had spoken. _**We need to leave.**_

Cersei glanced down at the mess next to her knees. The boy – or the corpse – lay motionlessly, his face pressed into a pool of blood. Instinctively, she brushed her hands against the stolen breeches, feeling as though were stained with blood, even though not a single drop of red could be seen.

 _I did what I had to do._ She told herself firmly as she stood up, forcing herself to swallow down her revulsion at the sight of the dead boy. She could never be a warrior if she shied away from gore and death. _Visenya had plenty of blood on her hands and never hesitated to spill more if it was necessary. She spilled even her own brother's blood when he refused to see reason. I must be strong like her._

She turned her back on the corpse, locked the cell and walked away. As she ascended the stairs, hushed voices reached her ears. Her hands began to shake as they grew louder and her heart was pounding in a frantic rhythm again, so hard she thought it might break her ribcage.

At the top of the stairs, two guards were absorbed in a conversation she was unable to follow due to the roaring of her heartbeat. They didn't even notice her approach until she was close enough for them to grab her and restrain her if they noticed she wasn't who she pretended to be.

 _ **Keep your head down. Don't give them any reason to take a closer look at you.**_

Cersei took a deep breath and bowed her head. She didn't look up, not even as she stretched her hand out towards one of the guards to hand him the key. It was the reason why she nearly jumped out of her skin when the guard addressed her.

"Did you lock the door, boy?" He asked as his hand met hers.

The feeling that he might recognize her grew so strong it nearly sent her running in mindless, unadulterated panic. It was only mere luck (or the gods showing their favour to her) that she instinctively bit the inside of her cheek, which allowed her to focus on the pain instead and kept her tied to the spot. She nodded without a word, hoping that the guard would accept that as an answer.

As soon as she stopped feeling the cold metal against her skin, she forced her rigid legs to carry her away. She expected the guards to see through her deception at any moment, but no pursuit came after her. With each step, she breathed a tad more easily, but her heartbeat never ceased to thunder inside her ears.

She swallowed hard every time she crossed paths with anyone, but she soon came to realize that impersonating a servant-boy allowed her to walk through the corridors of the Dun Fort practically unnoticed. It didn't surprise her that nobody paid much attention to servants, but playing the part was strange in a way she couldn't quite pinpoint. It took her a few minutes to realize she wasn't used to being invisible. Usually, wherever she went, people recognized her, acknowledged her, bowed to her. Here and now, she was just another soul running about her business.

( _Except her business was not to serve the House Darklyn, but the opposite – to bring its members to their knees._ )

When she finally escaped the labyrinth that was the Dun Fort, she instantly breathed in deeply, relishing in fresh air after days of captivity. She had never noticed how sweet the scent of freedom was and she was determined to never smell the stiff air of confinement again.

Above her head, clouds were aiding the night in extinguishing the last remains of day. The wind was rising; the feeling of its cool grasp at her bare neck reminded her once again of her loss. But there was no time to linger on it; in time, she would get her chance to avenge that offense.

A group of men in Darklyn colours ran past her towards the northern wall. It was already filled with soldiers, as was the western wall. Men yelled instructions at one another, their armours, swords and spears jangling as they ran past and sometimes into each other. It seemed like every man in Duskendale was on those walls, preparing for the upcoming siege. Cersei knew Father would never let any offence against House Lannister slide; he would break into Duskendale by force even if it cost him his daughter's life. She had told Lady Darklyn as much; the red-haired woman had agreed there would never be a better chance for Cersei to escape than tonight, when everyone would be too busy imagining the horrors Tywin Lannister could inflict on them to worry over a prisoner who was supposed to be under lock and key. For a moment, Cersei wondered if Lady Darklyn was thinking that same matter over right now. Without Cersei to tell Father what had happened, Lady Darklyn would be as much of a traitor in Tywin's eyes as her husband. As the voice had pointed out, Cersei held the woman's life in her hands, which had allowed her to negotiate better terms in their deal. As much as the voice occasionally irked her, she couldn't deny it was a valuable ally. Not that she dared think about it too much; she didn't want to give it more reasons to gloat.

Unlike the group of men, she headed south, towards the sea. The more men were summoned to the northern and western side of the castle, the less likely it was that the south was heavily guarded. She crossed paths with a few men and a few servant-girls who were carrying supplies into the castle, but nobody demanded an explanation as to why she was there. They all wore anxious expressions on their faces, as if aware this ordeal couldn't possibly end well for them. She was certain the melody of 'Rains of Castamere' was lingering in the back of their minds.

Just as the sea finally came into view, the last specks of grey between the black iron bars that made the traders' gate, she felt the first drop of water fall onto her forehead. By the time she reached the gate, at least a dozen drops were gliding down her forehead and cheeks. It didn't really matter; soon she would be completely soaked and not because of the rain.

She looked around quickly; there was no-one in sight. She took the chance and climbed down into the water, careful not to make noises that would draw any unwanted attention.

The water was cooler than she would prefer, so she rubbed her hands against her arms and legs to shove off the cold. As quietly as she could, she swam over to the gate and glanced outside through the bars. The sea was growing as black as Balerion's scales, but she was not afraid; it was out there that her freedom was waiting for her.

She took a deep breath and started pulling one wing of the gate open, bit by bit, while she was holding onto the other. The fear that someone would spot or hear her loomed constantly over her mind, but she forced herself not to look over her shoulders. It would only be a waste of precious time. Her progress was painfully slow, but she didn't dare rush the process, lest the iron shriek in protest. She counted her heartbeats to give herself something to focus on; every other beat the wings became slightly further apart until they were far enough she could squirm through the narrow space in between.

Not wanting to be seen, she didn't linger; when she dived beneath the surface, she could almost pretend she was back home and her twin was nearby, waiting for her to resurface so he could splash water into her face. She silently thanked the gods for her and Jaime's numerous escapades to the caves beneath Casterly Rock. Some other lady would find water an insurmountable obstacle – but not Cersei.

It took some effort, but she slowly put distance between herself and Duskendale; all the while, the world around her was growing darker and the rain more unrelenting, but she was too focused on keeping herself afloat to notice. She stayed close to the shore, her right hand occasionally brushing against the rocks as means of orientation. An occasional lightning in the distance served her well, illuminating her path. But the storm was slowly turning from an ally into an enemy as the wind grew stronger and the waves higher.

It was only when she accidentally swallowed a mouthful of water that she realized her tired body needed a momentary break from swimming. Her hands reached out and after a few moments of struggle managed to find a rock of suitable size and form to hold on to. She turned her back to the open sea, trying to catch her breath without allowing the water to force its way into her lungs. Of their own accord, her eyes glanced back towards the cage she had left behind. She could see nothing but darkness; the shape of the coast hid Duskendale from her view.

The rising waves crashed into her back forcefully, reminding her she still needed to get out of the sea before their grasp became too strong to resist it. The rock slipped through her fingers all too easily; even the tips of her nails ached.

Her exhausted body's protests grew more overwhelming as she forced herself to keep swimming forward and – to her horror – she found the fatigue was winning the battle. She inhaled deeply and dived down; while she didn't have to combat the wind and the waves beneath the surface, it grew ever harder to find an opportunity for taking the next breath. At some point when she resurfaced, she thought she had heard a voice; either it was her own, crying out for help, or she had begun hallucinating. She saw no-one; no help was coming.

She didn't even know when she had stopped resisting the force of the sea; it threw her around as if it was playing with her and all she could do was to try to remain on the surface. She had no idea where she was heading, lost in space and time. She might have spoken again or it might have all been inside her mind. In all honesty, she was too tired to care. She was too tired to keep fighting, too tired to even _think_.

A lightning struck in the distance; _the last light she would ever see_ , she thought almost indifferently. Then she hit her head against something solid and everything went completely dark.


	12. XII

**Hello again, dear readers.**

 **Sorry this update has come a little later than usually, but I've been busy with important things (like the World Cup) and some less important things (like studying - or is it the other way around?). Congratulations to all French and Croatian people reading this; I hope we'll see good football in the finals and may the best team win.**

 **As for the story, it now has more than 200 followers, which I'm very pleased about. I hope the upcoming chapters will also keep you interested. I'd also like to thank the reviewers who take their time to write their thoughts; I always try to reply to those of you who have an account, but I also want to let the guest reviewers know their support is not overlooked :)**

 **Okay, we can move along now. I hope you'll like the chapter :)**

"The girl…She's not in her cell, milord. We…We can't find her."

Judging by the hesitation with which he chose his words, the man seemed to expect him to lash out at the news.

Unfortunately, Denys was capable only of staring at him, robbed of breath. Paralyzed in shock, he had even stopped pacing the room. His throat became dry and his heart pounded so strongly he feared it might burst inside his chest. Maybe that would be a merciful fate.

His only advantage over Tywin Lannister, his only bargaining chip…gone. Everything he had worked for…almost as good as gone.

"How could she have escaped?" Serala's curt voice cut through the reverie that had possessed his mind. Luckily, she was the only other person present. Symon Hollard would have already had something unfavourable to say about Denys' reaction to the news. "Where were the guards?"

For the first time since Serala had set foot in Duskendale, one of Denys' men looked at her with fear in his eyes, as though it was her reaction that was to be dreaded, not Denys'. It was only then Denys noticed his hands were shaking like branches in the wind. He needed to pull himself together before his men decided they would rather follow even Serala's commands than his.

"They…" The guard swallowed hard under Serala's penetrating gaze. "The girl overpowered the servant-boy who had brought her food, killed him and took his clothes. The guards didn't notice…"

"If you hadn't insisted we unchained her, this never would have happened!" Denys snapped at Serala, who didn't look nearly as intimidated as he wanted her to be. She stared at him calmly, as if she wasn't even aware how much her mistake could cost them, then had the cheek to return her eyes to the needlework in her hands.

Well then, he would shake that icy armour of hers by any means necessary.

"You'd better pray she's found or I'll blame the whole ordeal on you!" He roared, willing her to _fear_ him. He was her husband, her lord. He wouldn't be lenient with her any longer.

Slowly, Serala raised her head to gaze at him. It wasn't fear that was bubbling beneath her beautiful features. Her eyes were like slits, the green of her irises barely visible. She looked like a furious goddess about to unleash her power on them, the unsuspecting mortals, both stunning and terrifying at the same time.

"And you think Tywin Lannister will believe you?" A smile blossomed on her face, with a cruel edge to it. "That a mere woman was the puppeteer behind the curtain?"

He swallowed hard. No, of course nobody would believe that.

"When I suggested we unchained the girl, I counted with reasonably competent guards." She continued with a disdainful air about her he could feel extended further than just the guards that had failed to prevent the girl from escaping. She then turned to the man who had brought them the news, her mouth once again forming a thin, serious line. "Find her. _Quickly_."

The man nodded and withdrew. Serala returned to her needlework without as much as a gaze at her husband. Denys licked his dry lips and bit them, trying to think of words that would drive fear into her, make her remember her place. But he just couldn't find them. He felt as though she would just scoff at him and he had already witnessed as much disrespect from her today as he could stand.

At last, he gave up, reasoning he had more important matters to think about. He couldn't afford to waste precious time on disciplining her, not now. Once the girl was found and the approaching army halted by threats to her life, he would consider Serala's punishment. She would learn her lesson, even if he had to threaten to send her back to Myr. He knew how much she detested the thought of returning to her father's house; she would never risk him following up on his threat.

He grinned at her, enjoying her imprudent choice to ignore him. She really shouldn't raise the stakes in the game with no winning card in her hand.

* * *

The thin body thrown over his right shoulder was drenched, nearly as greasy as fish Alyn had hoped to pull out of the water instead. He readjusted his grasp again as he ran through the rain, his shoulder aching underneath the unexpectedly heavy burden. It was only because he knew the path to his house like the back of his hand that he still hadn't stumbled over and broken any bones. It seemed it was the gods' will that his family had one more mouth to feed and only the remains of yesterday's dinner to eat tonight.

( _The moment the treacherous thought began to form in his mind, he squashed it urgently. He had yet to reach the house; he had better not challenge the gods' mercy._ )

He spat water out of his mouth and did his best to wipe his soaked face with his sleeve without losing grip on the boy (he was too small to be a man). Another thunder roared in the distance above the sea; for a moment, his home appeared in his sight. He could imagine his wife and children lying in their bed, Mya's arms wrapped around Ronnel and Maya, their heads resting on her shoulders. She was whispering soothing words, promising them Papa would be home soon.

The sight in his mind's eye strengthened his resolve. He was nearly there. Just a little bit further.

When he finally entered the house, he had to lower the boy on the ground so he could close the door while the wind fought him from the other side. It took all of his remaining strength, but after a long battle, the storm remained locked outside like an unwanted guest. He let out a deep breath of relief – and was startled when something suddenly grabbed him from behind.

"Papa!" Maya's voice was barely audible as it clashed with the roar of thunder outside, but her embrace was unyielding and reassuring in the nearly complete darkness. He turned around, picked up his little girl and gave her a tight hug.

"It's alright, Maya." He said softly into her hair. "I'm home now."

"Alyn." Mya appeared at the door that led to their bedroom with Ronnel in her arms, looking visibly relieved in the light of the candle she was carrying.

When he outstretched his hand towards her, she quickly rushed to his arms. The family stood still for a few moments, reassuring each other without words. The sea could be cold and unforgiving; it didn't care for loved ones its prey might leave behind. Alyn had lived through enough storms to know how lucky he had been tonight; a few minutes longer at the sea and he wouldn't have made it back.

 _Speaking of…_

He let go of his wife and daughter and moved to check on the boy who had yet to show any sign of life. It was only when Mya joined him and the flame of the candle illuminated the boy's face that he noticed the liquid that glided down his left temple wasn't water.

"He's…" But before he could have ended the sentence, Maya's voice cut in excitedly: "It's Joanna!"

Alyn exchanged a confused look with his wife, struggling to place the name and the face of the girl he had apparently mistaken for a boy.

"It's her, Papa!" Maya exclaimed with an enthusiastic grin on her face, but then her expression turned sad as she caressed the blond head gently. "Why did they cut off her hair, Papa? It was so beautiful and now…"

Alyn finally remembered; it was the girl who had appeared at their door with her father not so long ago. Maya had embraced her as if she were family the moment she had laid eyes on her and the golden-haired girl had handled Maya's adoration with graceful patience. If she _had_ been annoyed by Maya's behaviour, she had never shown it. For that alone, Alyn was grateful to the unknown girl. If only her departure from their home hadn't been so sudden; it had shattered Maya's heart, leaving her inconsolable for days.

"Why isn't she waking up?" His daughter's wide eyes turned to her parents, begging them to summon the motionless girl back to life. _Please, make her wake up._

"Hold Ronnel." Mya whispered to him softly.

With Ronnel half-asleep in his arms, Alyn watched his wife kneel on the ground and bring the candle closer to the girl's face. The flame shimmered faintly when she placed it above the girl's mouth, not enough for them to be certain. Then she pressed her cheek against the girl's chest, looking for a rise and fall of her chest or a heartbeat.

"Her heart is still beating." She said as she sat up straight. "But barely."

"What happened to her?" Maya was already becoming teary-eyed. "Who hurt her?"

Alyn had no answer to that. The last time they had seen the golden-haired girl, she had been taken away by the men sent by the lord of Duskendale. One would think she would have been safe in their hands. How had she ended up in the sea while a storm was raging, alone, a few breaths away from drowning? Looking as a boy, at that?

Doubts began plaguing his mind. The soldiers had come for her in the dead of the night. Hadn't taken eyes off her since the moment she had appeared in their line of vision. As though she was a dangerous criminal, rather than a lady.

What if she _was_ dangerous?

"She needs a maester." He said firmly, deciding not to voice his qualms right away. He'd share his opinion with Mya once Maya was out of hearing range. "The moment it's safe to go outside, I'll carry her to Duskendale."

Maya's eyes flickered to his instantly.

"I'll come with you, Papa." She insisted with a note of urgency in her voice.

It pained him to refuse her, but he was determined to set out on this journey alone. Bringing Maya with him could give the girl (even if it seemed she wouldn't wake up soon) the opportunity to use Maya's admiration to her advantage and escape. It was hard to believe a girl of one-and-ten was a fugitive (or capable of committing any kind of crime), but nonetheless, he couldn't risk it.

"I'm going alone. You will stay here with Ronnel and Mama."

Maya opened her mouth to object, but he raised a hand to silence her incoming protests.

"I will be faster alone." He didn't like to deny her something she found so important, but he was doing it for her safety. "And the sooner I get her to a maester, the greater chances are that she will wake up." _If the maester decides she should be woken up at all._

After a few moments of conflicted silence, Maya finally nodded her agreement. Realizing she didn't have much time left with the girl, she remained at her side as Mya kept pressure on the wound on her head with a piece of fabric. Her lips trembled slightly, as if she was praying without any proper words. For his little girl's sake, Alyn hoped the gods were listening.

* * *

The horn sounded the command. With either sword or spear in one hand and a shield in the other, the soldiers started closing in on the town.

Metal clanged as they moved towards the gates of Duskendale, holding the shields above their heads to avoid the rain that showed no sign of weakening and occasional arrows fired at them from from the walls. The veil of night hid them from view, but the lightning that lit up the sky every once in a while worked in the defenders' favour, allowing them to catch a glimpse of the approaching army and to send another wave of arrows flying down on the attackers. The missiles grew in number and frequency the closer the army approached and found their targets more often. Still, the soldiers advanced forward relentlessly, driven by loyalty – whether to the king or the Hand, it was hard to say.

Soaked to the skin, Arthur watched the troupes move forward alongside Rhaegar, Jon and Tywin Lannister. There was no shield from the rain on the open field; he could swear the cursed water had reached his bones. Despite the discomfort he was feeling, he sat on his horse still like a statue, ignoring the droplets dripping down his hair and neck. He refused to appear weaker than a man twice his age and young men three and more years his juniors. If they could bear the less than perfect conditions without complaints, then so could he. Besides, it wasn't like he could simply walk away; Rhaegar had insisted they observed the troupes' advancement. He was aware his reign wouldn't last long if he were to drink wine and play in cards in the comfort of his tent while his men died while trying to carry out _his_ wishes; the least he could do was to share the misery of having to stand in the heavy rain. Unfortunately, he wanted his best friends by his side and so Arthur had taken his place at the king's right, wishing he hadn't. After almost three years as Kingsguard, he was _nearly_ used to the role he had been assigned to play – in a way one got used to pain from old injuries. It could be ignored for a time, but it was never forgotten.

"My king!" A call came through the rain, snapping everyone from their thoughts.

One of the soldiers left to guard the tents suddenly appeared from the darkness and barely avoided falling over into dirt. As soon as he regained his balance, he bowed his head and waited for the king to give him permission to approach.

"What is it?" Rhaegar's voice was barely heard in the cacophony around them.

The man came closer, but whatever he said, Arthur didn't catch it. However, Rhaegar straightened up immediately and gestured to both sides of his horse that he was to be followed. Without any explanation, he turned his horse around and rode off towards the camp, kicking the animal's sides as fiercely as though an army of Others was after him. Arthur exchanged a brief glance with Jon before they both followed the king. They found themselves staring at the back of Tywin Lannister, who unlike them hadn't hesitated for a moment to chase after Rhaegar.

Instead to his own tent, which Arthur had assumed was the only place where any matter that demanded Rhaegar's immediate attention could have risen from (in form of a letter or a messenger), Rhaegar had led them to the one belonging to Maester Cadwyn. Like the rest of the Kingsguard, Grandmaester Pycelle had been commanded to stay in King's Landing to watch over the queen and Prince Viserys, so the younger maester had been sent from the Citadel to join them on the campaign. Arthur couldn't even begin to guess why the king had decided to answer Maester Cadwyn's summons immediately; what could possibly be more important than the siege of Duskendale?

He got his answer when he entered the maester's tent. On a table in the middle of it, surrounded by bottles and parchments, was a motionless body.

"Why isn't she waking up?" Tywin Lannister curtly demanded of the maester, who swallowed hard and mumbled something about trying his best. Judging by the Hand's glare, he found the young maester's _best_ far from satisfactory.

If that wasn't a clear indication of who the patient was, the way Rhaegar stared unblinkingly at the girl wiped out all doubts. His expression was…conflicted, like he wanted and didn't want her to wake up at the same time. Given that only a day ago he had been considering making her his Queen, it was quite a strange and a contradicting sight. Rhaegar was extremely hard to read and rarely willing to share his thoughts, so it was impossible to guess what the cause of his sudden change of heart was. Arthur had put up with his ambiguousness when he was a prince without complaints, but now that Rhaegar sat on the Iron throne, it was essential that he shared his thoughts and plans, with Kingsguard in no-one else. One day, it could make a difference between lives saved and lives lost.

"With Your Grace's permission, I will send my daughter to King's Landing immediately. I want Grandmaester Pycelle to assess the extent of her injuries." Tywin turned to Rhaegar suddenly; his cold and dismissive demeanour made it seem Maester Cadwyn had ceased to exist. "I don't think she can afford to wait; her state could considerably worsen by the time we dealt with the Darklyns."

The Hand's voice made Rhaegar flinch, as if the man had hit him rather than spoken to him. Judging by the way he looked at Lord Lannister, his hazy eyes wide in surprise, he seemed to have forgotten there were other people in the tent beside him and the girl.

"I…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to rouse himself out of the reverie he had fallen into. It was very uncharacteristic for Rhaegar to struggle for words; it appeared Tywin Lannister's intentions had completely passed him by.

It was Arthur's duty to rush to the king's rescue. "We can save more lives than just Lady Lannister's if we act quickly, Your Grace." He acknowledged the gravity of the girl's state with a nod at her still form, but also reckoned no-one in the tent could do anything for her. However, there were so many men out there whose lives could be saved with just one command. "Our men are fighting a needless battle. The Darklyns know they no longer have any leverage. If they surrender peacefully, we will no longer need a vast army to break through their gates. It means we will be able to spare a few dozen men to accompany Lady Lannister to King's Landing."

"The Darklyns had their chance to surrender peacefully." In the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Tywin Lannister's attention was also directed at him, but he kept his eyes on Rhaegar and his expression neutral. An additional note of anger sneaked into the Hand's voice. "An example has to be made of them."

Like everyone, Arthur had heard the stories. It was Mother who had first told them to Arthur and his siblings, to make them realize just how cruel and ruthless the new Hand was (and how could the king who had chosen him for that position be any different?). Thousands of innocent people had died just so Tywin Lannister's pride could be appeased. It had been nothing but a merciless massacre.

"Forgive me, my lord, but there are women and children behind those walls too." His voice was ice-cold, parrying the heated glare of the Hand. "Most of Duskendale's people had nothing to do with your daughter's abduction. They don't deserve to pay the price for their lord's pride."

The accusation behind his words hadn't gone unnoticed by the Hand, if the way his eyes narrowed in rage was anything to go by. But Arthur didn't fear him. He was one of the Kingsguard and the king's closest confidant. Tywin Lannister might be powerful, but even his influence had limits.

( _In regards to Rhaegar, those limits needed to be set quickly. Tywin Lannister's influence was like weed; where it was rooted once, it was nearly impossible to extinguish it._ )

"Tell our men to retreat."

Arthur separated his gaze from the Hand and looked at the king. Rhaegar stared back at him, his gaze sharp and attentive. He had finally awoken from whatever trance Cersei Lannister's sudden appearance had ensnared him in.

It was worrisome that she had such an effect on him. It was also frustrating that Arthur didn't know why Rhaegar wanted her around – or taught swordplay. The explanations he had come up with simply weren't good enough. If it was any other man in question, he would blame it on an infatuation, but he just couldn't bring himself to proclaim Rhaegar smitten, especially not by a girl who wasn't even old enough to be deemed physically attractive. Her father _was_ the Hand and she _was_ wealthy, but none of those things had ever seemed to matter to Rhaegar. There had so be something about _her_ , something that had captured Rhaegar's attention and held it for long enough for him to become, as he'd put it himself, _fond of her_.

Well, if she never woke up, it wouldn't matter. However, if she did, he would need to find out what she truly meant to the king. Getting the truth out of Rhaegar could take years, but the girl might be more inclined to share the secret if she believed the perfect white knight only wanted to help her carry that burden. Once he knew what Rhaegar had seen in her that night in Casterly Rock, he would be able to ensure it wouldn't get in the way.

The king turned to Jon next. "You will accompany Lady Lannister to King's Landing." He said in a tone that allowed no objection. "You will not leave her side until you hand her to Grandmaester Pycelle's care."

Unsurprisingly, given Jon's blunt and impulsive character, his scowl showed what Rhaegar's tone had forbidden him to. Ever since they had set out from King's Landing, he had been acting like a jealous lover, questioning Cersei Lannister's importance at each and every step. Rhaegar had remained stubbornly silent on the matter, as he did on many other things. Arthur had yet to learn why he wrote to Maester Aemon so often or why he spent so much time reading about prophecies. His interest in them clearly surpassed the mere curiosity men, even Arthur himself, occasionally felt regarding supernatural.

As did his interest in Cersei Lannister.

Was that the missing link? Did he believe she was a part of some prophecy he believed to be true? Did he really intend to make her his queen based on a few lines written on a dusty piece of parchment?

If he did, the Realm might come to cry for Aerys after all.

"Arthur?"

He breathed in sharply, snapped out of his musings by the king's voice. When violet met violet, he was almost surprised to see Rhaegar just the same as he always was – thoughtful, if a bit distant. For a moment, he had expected skin as pale as snow, bloodied eyes with a spark of madness in them.

"Tell the men to retreat." Rhaegar repeated his earlier command. It seemed he hadn't noticed anything was amiss.

Arthur bowed his head, relieved he had an excuse to do so.

"Yes, Your Grace." He said under his breath, still unable to banish the mad, monstrous version of Rhaegar his mind had conjured.

He headed outside swiftly, barely noticing the rain and the wind whose bites hadn't become any less frequent. He was still pondering the possibility that Rhaegar would let centuries old manuscripts (that might just as well be ramblings of dozens drunkards for all anyone knew, as there was no mention of authors for many of the 'prophecies') dictate his decisions on how to rule the Seven Kingdoms. His father's namesake had also harboured an unhealthy obsession with prophecies and ancient texts and nobody considered Aerys I. to have been a good king.

The situation could be far worse than Arthur had assumed. He had to send messages to Starfall as soon as possible; Mother would make sure the word reached the right people. If the Targayen madness had already taken root within Rhaegar, they wouldn't be able to afford to wait for too long. His family might insist they let Rhaegar bring about his own destruction, but Arthur refused to stand by and watch as people suffered under the reign of another mad king. Serving under Aerys had been the worst experience of his life; Aerys' obsession with spies and traitors, even if not completely unfounded, had been wearisome for everyone around him. The slaughter of that poor young girl and her family that Aerys had ordered after the death of Prince Jaehaerys still haunted Arthur to this day. He had nearly abandoned all sense that day and run his sword through Aerys' back, but like everyone else he had a part to play, so he had forced himself to stand back and do nothing.

He would not do so again. He didn't care if there were pieces on the board that had yet to be put in their places; he refused to blindly follow orders. If they failed to act, then they were no better than the Targaryens – and Arthur had wasted his gifts fighting for a hypocritical cause.

He refused to believe that. He fought for a better Westeros. He always would.

And no man with Targaryen madness in his blood would stand in his way.

* * *

After she had pricked her finger on a needle for the third time, Serala was forced to admit her nerves were getting the better of her.

With a quiet sigh, she put aside her needlework and looked around the drawing room, trying to find something else to entertain herself with. Unfortunately, Denys seemed intent on robbing her of any kind of distraction by pacing restlessly around the room like a caged animal. Thanks to him, there was no way she could forget the danger looming ominously over their heads, even if she let her eyes flutter shut.

So far, the only bright side was that no word had come that Lady Lannister had been found.

Suddenly the sound of a door opening reached her ears, startling her. She opened her eyes and saw a man dressed in armour at the door. He was bent over with his hands leaned on his knees, swallowing air greedily as though he had never truly breathed before.

"What is it?" Denys snapped impatiently, not giving the man even a moment to recover.

"They…" He was still struggling to catch his breath; for a moment, Serala thought he might drop onto his knees. "They have retreated, milord. The king is giving us another chance to surrender."

Serala bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling, feeling her heartbeat picking up pace. The girl must have managed to reach the royal army. It was the only reason why they would call off the attack; now that they had what they had come for, there was no need for more bloodshed. Clearly the new king wasn't wrapped around his Hand's finger like the previous one was rumoured to have been – or he, just like her husband, just didn't have the stomach for such carnage. Whatever the case, Serala was grateful she might avoid too close encounters with men high on bloodthirsty instincts. Her father had often complained about the large amount of money the magisters paid to khalasars to pass Myr by without sacking it and never failed to mention that it didn't really stop the Dothraki from destroying homes of people who lived on the outskirts of Myr and raping their women and children. Serala doubted there was a more barbaric horde in the world than the Dothraki and was glad to have put the Narrow Sea between them and herself, but she didn't want to find out how the 'civilized' men of Westeros behaved with the roar of victory in their ears.

She had to convince Denys to accept the offer. But not while the messenger was here; Denys wouldn't follow her advice if there was a witness around.

"Fetch…" She breathed in and paused, trying to think of a continuation of the sentence. Only one person whose presence would make sense came to mind and she couldn't afford to hesitate. "Symon."

The man looked at Denys questioningly, waiting for his approval, which he got after a few moments in the form of a stiff nod. He then withdrew, leaving the Darklyns alone in the room.

There was no time to waste.

"We should accept the king's offer." She urged her husband. "We don't know where the girl is; as far as we know, she's tattling everything to the king and her father as we speak. If we don't surrender now, the king won't show us any mercy."

For a split-second, it seemed he hadn't even heard her. Then his expression changed; blank stare was replaced by bared teeth and narrowed eyes, as though she was facing a beast rather than a man.

"You." His snarl sent her jumping to her feet in alarm. "You helped her escape."

Serala's mouth fell open in surprise. His realization seemed more a product of an accidental guess rooted in rage than deliberate thinking, but she was still shocked that he'd figured it out.

"Denys, I have no idea what you are…"

"You had her released from chains, you sent that servant-boy to her." He interrupted her mid-sentence. For every step backwards she made, he made two forwards.

Her back bumped into a wall; she had nowhere to run to.

"Why would I have helped her escape?" Her breaths started coming out uneven; she knew her body was betraying her, but no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't rein her fear in. "Wha-What do I ha-have to gain?"

Her breath caught in her throat when he grabbed her neck. Although his grasp had yet to tighten enough to cut off her air supply, her hands instinctively gripped his, but he was too strong for her to escape him.

"You have wanted me to surrender almost since this ordeal started." His nails pierced the delicate skin of her neck; she tried to scream, but a choking sound was all that came out of her mouth. "As if you want me to fail. As if you want someone else to rule Duskendale."

Robbed of air, she was quickly losing her ability to think clearly. She couldn't even grasp who he was talking about, too focused on trying to force even a sliver of air into her lungs.

Her unintentional silence cost her. She hadn't even seen it coming.

He hit her in the face first. Pain blossomed on her cheek like a rose in a summer's dawn. She raised her hand to her face, but before she could even try to soothe the sore spot with a caress, he hit her again. Then once more. She might have cried out or even begged him to stop, but the pain was so overwhelming she couldn't be sure.

Desperate to shield her face, she gave up on trying to separate his hands from her neck and covered her throbbing cheeks with her palms.

It took him less than a heartbeat to find another weak spot.

She thought she had heard her own ribs cracking. Then again. And again. It was hard to catch it beneath the screams. _Her_ screams. The agony would have knocked her off her feet, but he was still holding her by the neck with his other hand, keeping her upright, making her body an easier target for his wrath.

Utter desperation washed over her when she realized that nobody was coming to help her. People of Duskendale hated her. Denys was their lord. They'd probably indulge in their suppressed resentment towards her and gladly help him beat her to death.

Death.

Was this how she was going to die? Blind with pain and something else…tears? She hadn't cried – _truly_ cried, not counting a few drops she let fall down her cheeks to make Denys bow to her desires – in years. She was reduced to a pathetic, helpless, humiliated girl she had sworn she would never become again.

She was suffocating. Black spots were dancing in front of her eyes. Consciousness was slipping through her fingers…

Suddenly, her throat was no longer constricted. She breathed in deeply – and collapsed.

Her aching cheeks nearly met the floor beneath her, but then a hand grabbed her forearm, saving her face from another hit, but raising a new wave of pain inside her chest. She was slowly lowered to the floor and soon found herself half-sitting – half-lying on the lap of who she supposed was her rescuer, her back pressed against a firm chest. Even raising her head proved to be an insurmountable obstacle for her weakened, beaten body, so she opened her mouth to thank him.

No words glided down her lips as they usually did. Instead, all that came out was blood (and was that _a tooth_?!).

"Now, now, Serala, don't die on me."

Even in her state, she recognized the smug voice that uttered her name. The thought that she could have thanked Symon Hollard for anything was a welcoming reminder that she would rather spit out blood and teeth whenever she spoke for the rest of her life.

Symon turned her face to his gently so he could look her in the eyes. He did try to avoid injuring her further; she would give him that, but no more.

"Now I need you to listen to me very carefully." He said seriously, the arrogance gone from his voice. It was the only reason she deigned him with a silence he had asked for. "I don't want to die because of Denys' stupidity and neither do you. I think we can agree on that."

He made a pause to see her reaction, probably expecting a protest, but she could think of none. It was a simple fact proven true only a few moments ago; she didn't want to die.

"What we need is to spin a nice little tale for the king and the Hand that will make it seem the rebellion was entirely Denys' idea and free us of any blame."

She nodded, motioning for him to go on.

"You have known for some time that your husband was mad, even before he made the plan to rebel against the Crown." His voice became quieter, almost a whisper, making sure they wouldn't be overheard. "He beat you often, but you didn't dare tell anyone because he threatened to kill you. Nobody else knew. Denys was just brilliant at concealing his less amicable tendencies."

He fell silent again, ready for a series of objections from her, but in all honesty, she rather liked his lie – for now. She nodded again.

"I only learned about it today, when I walked in on him beating you, his beloved wife." She winced when his finger passed over her cheek; even the smallest pressure caused her pain. "I was afraid I would be too late to save you, so I stabbed him in the back without thinking. Unfortunately – or luckily – it killed him."

He lifted her head gently, enabling her to see Denys lying motionlessly in the pool of his own blood. She couldn't see his face and was glad for it. She didn't know what she was afraid of seeing; the sweet if sometimes irritating husband or the raging beast that had nearly killed her.

"We will offer our deepest apologies and promise Duskendale will faithfully serve the Crown from now on as to prove its loyalty to the new king." A grin spread over his lips and the self-satisfied glint returned to his eyes. "With a bit of luck, I will soon be its lord. As for you, dear Serala," He caressed her cheek again, ignoring her snake-like hisses, "You'd better become as pretty as you were; otherwise I will have to find a new lady of Duskendale."

Left with little choice, she settled for narrowing her eyes at him and shooting him a defying look. She would confirm his story to avoid the repercussions of Denys' actions, but she had no intention of staying in Duskendale after all was said and done. Symon was far more perceptive than Denys and that made him dangerous. She was sure he hadn't forgotten her refusal and had many creative plans in mind on how to make her pay for that offense.

She would literally hide behind Lady Lannister's skirts if she had to, but the girl would have her as her lady-in-waiting, as it had been agreed. She surely had plenty of servants who did her bidding; how many tiresome responsibilities she had never wanted to have could really fall on Serala's shoulders?


	13. XIII

**Hello again, dear readers. I know I'm late with this update (if we assume I have somewhat regular updating schedule, which I kind of fail to stick with lately), but I hope the length of the chapter will make up for it. Many things happen; some mysteries are resolved, some remain unresolved, new ones appear. Mostly, it's a chapter filled with inner conflicts. (And writing it made me realize I need to write Rhaegar's POV more often because if I don't write it for three chapters, I totally lose grasp on his character. Mr. Martin totally cheated; he just said Rhaegar had once existed and condemned us to wondering what he was like. Well, I hope my version is not unacceptable.)**

 **I'm quite tired, but I also want to publish this chapter finally, so forgive me for any grammar or spelling mistakes. I hope they won't prevent you from enjoying the story.**

As he rode into the yard within the Dun Fort's walls, Rhaegar was caught off guard by the unnerving motionlessness of _everything_.

In the dark of the night, the flickering flames that were more carefully shielded from the rain than people only enhanced the eeriness of the sight around him. Men and women stood in the yard with their knees bent, still as statues, unaffected by water or wind. No sound could be heard but that of rain falling, drenching smallfolk as well as kings and lords. They stared at the ground beneath their feet, their necks exposed as though they were waiting for the executioner to let the axe fall. Perhaps they believed that was to be their fate.

Rhaegar wanted to reassure them, tell them he was there to bring peace, not more chaos. He wanted them to know he had never intended for them to lose their friends, members of their family in the attack he had ordered. If only Lady Cersei had been brought to him a few hours sooner; the bloodshed on her behalf could have been avoided completely.

( _In this battle, at least._ )

He forced himself to abandon that line of thought before it could turn into a web he wouldn't be able to disentangle. This was neither the time nor the place to lose himself to the contemplations of his newest dream. He needed to be King now, as he had sworn after Father's death he would be.

On the other side of the yard, one man stood up. His eyes came to rest on the king, gazing at him expectantly. Rhaegar guessed it was Lord Darklyn and rode towards him. When he reached him, the man bowed his head, his dark hair hanging lifelessly around his face under the weight of the rain. Rhaegar slid off his horse, sinking a few centimetres into the mud the moment his feet touched the ground.

"Lord Darklyn, I presume?" He asked instantly, not wanting to prolong everyone's misery of having to stand in the dreadful weather.

The man, about ten years Rhaegar's senior, shook his head.

"No, Your Grace." He said, raising his eyes to the king's. "I am Symon Hollard, Lord Denys' good-brother."

Two men approached them from behind Rhaegar's back; he didn't have to look at them to know who they were. One of them was particularly impatient to get his hands on Lord Darklyn, even if the thought he was hiding it well. Rhaegar had never considered Tywin Lannister a particularly caring father, but his behaviour had changed since his daughter had been taken. He was more prone to outbursts and threats, contrary to his usually collected demeanour. It was an unusual way of showing affection, but at least it proved that somewhere deep down, Lord Tywin did have a heart.

Or maybe it was only the matter of protecting the family's reputation, but Rhaegar wanted to believe Tywin Lannister capable of fatherly love. For Lady Cersei's sake.

( _Was that not a proof of how attached to her he had become?_ _How could he break the bond between them now? Why hadn't he learned of her fate sooner?_ )

He was doing it again. He needed to stop. _Now._

"Take us to your good-brother then." He ordered before the Hand could take out his impatience on Ser Symon.

The man nodded and led them inside. As soon as there was roof over their heads, he turned to Rhaegar again.

"Your Grace, my good-brother is…" He cleared his throat slightly, as if his mouth had suddenly gone dry. "Dead."

Rhaegar couldn't tell what he'd expected to hear, but Ser Symon's declaration caught him completely off guard. For a few moments, he could only stare at the man with wide eyes, trying to process what he had just been told.

"When?" The questions started bursting out of him uncontrollably, as if he were an overly curious child with a faulty capability of self-restraint. "How?"

Ser Symon cleared his throat again, visibly unsettled by the subject.

"Not an hour ago." His tone, however, remained firm this time. "I stabbed him."

Suddenly, Rhaegar felt a hand on his shoulder which pulled him backwards. Arthur appeared at his side and positioned himself between his friend and Ser Symon, using his body and unsheathed sword to shield the king. Ser Symon didn't look surprised by the knight's actions; his only reaction was raising his hands to show them he had no treacherous intentions.

"If Your Grace would allow me to explain the circumstances under which I did what I did…" He kept his dark eyes fixed on Rhaegar, ignoring the tip of Dawn pressed against his collarbone.

Rhaegar assessed his options. He could have the man arrested and charged with murder. His explanation could wait until the trial. On the other hand, the man _had_ openly confessed his crime, without bothering to deny it; he must have had a reason for his honesty. He must have believed he would be pardoned for it. Rhaegar could hear Ser Symon out here and now, with only Arthur and Lord Tywin as witnesses, without the additional pressure a large audience would put on his back.

"Let him speak." He insisted, placing his hand on Arthur's shoulder to placate his hostile stance.

It struck him a moment to late such gestures were unwarranted. He was King now and his word had to be obeyed without hesitation. He could feel Tywin Lannister's disapproving eyes on him and forced himself to ignore them. He wouldn't give up Arthur's friendship to appease the Hand and his misguided views on such a bond. It wasn't anyone's fault but his and Father's that their friendship had ended on such a sour note.

After a few moments of tense silence, Arthur removed the blade from Ser Symon's throat, but remained standing between him and Rhaegar. Ser Symon lowered his hands and nodded gratefully at the king.

"When I learned of your generous offer that would put an end to the battle, I went to see Denys to advise him to accept it." He said solemnly, never taking his eyes off Rhaegar. "I found him beating his wife, the person whom I thought he loved more than anything in the world, like she was his worst enemy. He didn't even notice when I entered."

He made a pause and took a deep breath. Rhaegar stared at the man unblinkingly as not to miss a single change in expression that might betray malicious intentions.

His inspection revealed no concealed trails. Ser Symon gazed directly back at him, his dark eyes lacking any spark of triumph or wickedness.

"His fate was a result of instinctive reaction, Your Grace." He continued, his voice calm and stern. "All I could think about was saving Lady Serala from being beaten to death. I don't know what he believed she had done, but it would have been cruel death."

Rhaegar was inclined to believe Ser Symon's story; he did appear genuinely concerned about Lady Serala. He didn't deserve to be punished for wanting to rescue her from the wrath of her husband. However, killing one's lord was an act that couldn't be overlooked. Ser Symon would have to face some kind of consequences for his actions. But what…

"Take us to Lady Darklyn."

Tywin Lannister's voice snapped the king out of his thoughts. The Hand was staring intently at Ser Symon, as if daring him to refuse his request.

Seemingly unaffected by Lord Lannister's glare, the black-haired man nodded and motioned at them to follow him.

"She is with the maester." He made a few steps forward, but then paused and turned to them again, his expression grave. "The extent of her injuries is…quite unsettling. Just so you are prepared."

They followed him through the shadowy corridors of the Dun Fort, illuminated with flickering flames rising from numerous torches, with their steps and the occasional roar of thunder being the only sounds that accompanied them. After a few minutes, they entered a brightly lit room. Rhaegar blinked a few times until his eyes got used to the light and the black spots disappeared from his line of vision. When his sight cleared, he saw a middle-aged man with his head bowed and a maester's chain hanging around his neck. Next to him, a lady stood with her hands wrapped in the skirts of her emerald dress embroidered with silver threads, her face hidden by the long locks of red hair.

"Lady Serala, Your Grace." Ser Symon gestured at woman, who winced momentarily, as though the brief shift in the air had unbalanced her.

She curtsied stiffly when she was introduced, but still kept staring at her feet instead of meeting their eyes. Rhaegar presumed it was because she wanted to hide the damage done to her face, but he needed to look her in the eyes and hear her speak. He couldn't know if she was being honest otherwise.

"My lady." He spoke gently, but unyieldingly. He was determined to hear the truth. "I can see you are in pain and I do not wish you to suffer needlessly, but I must ask you to tell me what happened."

She did raise his head then; his breath caught when he was given a direct view on her injuries. Her left cheek was covered in one large bruise. He could swear he could make out a broken bone on her other cheek. Her each breath was like a battle she narrowly won; he guessed she had suffered at least one or two broken ribs.

"Lady Serala?" For a moment, he considered leaving her to be tended to by the maester and accepting whatever story Ser Symon had to tell as the truth, but decided against it. His tone asked her to gather whatever strength she had left and promised he would make sure her injuries were tended to. He hoped she could hear it. "You must tell me what happened."

She nodded, with an expression more resolute than he'd expected.

"My husband…" She winced and closed her eyes and mouth, as if trying to regain control over her features. When she took a deep breath, her hand went to her chest of its own accord, betraying her agony. Still, she looked him in the eyes again, but he could see hers were tearstained. "I…He attacked me…unprovoked."

He didn't interrupt her with questions, rather letting her decide on her own when she was ready to speak again.

"He…It was…not the first time." She spoke as though she was choking on her words (or pain – or fear), but she was clearly willing herself to continue. "He said he would…kill me if…if I told anyone."

"Perhaps the lady should sit down, Your Grace." Arthur suggested quietly when Lady Darklyn made another long pause in her speech.

Rhaegar's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He had been so focused on deciphering her words in between the heavy breaths and learning the truth that he'd failed to realize they were all still standing when there was no need to. The suggestion should have come from him, not from Arthur. However, there was nothing to be done but to proceed with dignity and kindness his previous conduct had lacked.

"Please, my lady." He gestured to her to sit down on one of the two chairs in the room.

She nodded gratefully and seated herself on the closest chair, while all the men remained standing. Rhaegar, Arthur and Lord Lannister were still facing her, but Ser Symon found himself another place, at Lady Serala's side. His hand came to rest on the back of the chair, close to her shoulder, as though he was prepared to reassure or catch her, should any kind of weakness overcome her.

"Today…" At the sound of her voice, Rhaegar's eyes returned to the red-haired woman, who was once again gazing at him. "When he learned that…Lady Lannister had escaped, he…" She swallowed hard; her right hand clutched the fingers of her left so tightly her knuckles turned white. "He lost his mind…completely. He would have killed me…if Symon hadn't stopped him."

She glanced at the black-haired man, who nodded at her with a serious, but comforting expression on his face, then turned to the king.

"I wish I'd realized sooner how much my good-brother's state of mind had deteriorated." He said gravely. "This whole ordeal might never have happened."

"Are you suggesting that only one man – a man who has conveniently died before he could be brought to justice – should be held responsible for this rebellion against the Crown?"

Rhaegar glanced at the Hand, but Tywin Lannister kept glaring at Symon Hollard with narrowed eyes, not caring that he had spoken out of turn. The black-haired man, to his credit, held his gaze.

"Denys was mad, my Lord Hand." Ser Symon's voice wasn't quite even, but he didn't lose his composure under the scrutinizing gaze of Lord Tywin. "And nobody knew it except for Lady Serala. To the rest of us, he seemed perfectly sane. We couldn't have known we were obeying a madman – who, at last, we owed our loyalty to."

If that was even possible, Tywin Lannister's brow furrowed even more; he wasn't finding Symon Hollard's reasoning satisfactory and he didn't hide his reservations. Unlike him, Arthur kept his opinion hidden beneath a thoughtful mask. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking.

Rhaegar glanced at Lady Darklyn again. Those injuries were too severe for her story to be doubted. She was definitely a victim in all of this, just like Cersei Lannister.

"So, you were just following orders." Sarcasm in Lord Tywin's voice sounded like a note out of tune, making everyone around him recoil inwardly. Perhaps it was because it would have been sarcasm if it had come from anyone else, but in the case of Tywin Lannister, it was impossible to tell if he was actually being serious.

"Yes." Ser Symon nodded, but was careful never to lose sight of the Hand's face. His gaze, as well as his tone, suddenly gained in sharpness. "I would have thought you, if no-one else, would approve of one's loyalty to one's lord."

Rhaegar's mouth nearly fell open; he regained control of his features in the nick of time, trying his best to mask his astonishment. Next to him, the briefest tilt upwards of the corner of Arthur's lips gave away how impressed the knight was by Ser Symon's nerve. The man just stood up to Lord Lannister, by using the events in Castamere as the argument behind his words at that. If he hadn't witnessed it himself, Rhaegar doubted he would have believed it.

Tywin Lannister's expression was frozen. He didn't blink or click his tongue or did anything one would do to fill the tense silence; he barely even breathed. It seemed as if he was trying to ensnare his rage again before it burst out of him – or maybe he hadn't even in his wildest dreams expected to be belied.

At last he nodded, as if in acknowledgement of Ser Symon's words. Then he raised his head their gazes clashed again like two blades.

"And what of your loyalty to your king?" He asked calmly, seemingly unshaken by the unusual occurrence that he was in need of a second argument to prove his point.

Ser Symon's eyes met Rhaegar's. The king wondered what excuse the man would offer to deflect this accusation. Lord Tywin was right; the people's loyalty should ultimately lie with him. Even if the Darklyns had had nothing to do with Father's death, an offense against the Hand was an offense against King as well. Their failure to hand Cersei Lannister over the moment it had been asked of them showed their supposed loyalty in a different light.

"I mean no disrespect, Your Grace," Everything about Ser Symon's demeanour announced the 'but' that was about to follow, "But up to a certain point, I did agree with Denys' plans to bring Duskendale back to the map of the world, so to say. I wanted it to rise and thrive, just like he did." He sighed again and shook his head. "I just didn't realize what lengths he was willing to go to in order to make it happen."

The silence that followed made it clear that Ser Symon had nothing more to say. Surprisingly, Tywin Lannister remained silent as well. He kept staring intently at the man who had brought an end to his daughter's captor as though he was contemplating serving the vengeance he had planned for Denys Darklyn to Ser Symon simply for sparing the former Lord of Duskendale the fate the Hand had had planned for him.

Rhaegar wasn't sure what to do. On one hand, Ser Symon's actions had enabled them to enter Duskendale with minimal casualties. His story wasn't implausible, but after Lord Tywin had voiced his doubts, it did seem somehow inadequate. How could no-one have noticed Lady Darklyn's suffering? How could no-one have realized Lord Darklyn had lost his mind? Surely _someone_ must have noticed _something_ , there must have been whispers…

 _Like there had been when Father's mental state had begun deteriorating._

He wanted to squash the thought, make it disappear as soon as it crossed his mind, but it was too late. It had taken root and spread like weed, its thorns slashing the still healing wounds. He ran his nails into his palms, focusing on the physical pain in order to escape the ache within. He couldn't break now. He needed to think clearly.

"As I understand, Denys Darklyn had no heir." When their eyes met again, Lady Darklyn shook her head. "Does he have any brothers or cousins who could take his place as Lord of Duskendale?"

"Denys was the last man of the Darklyn line, Your Grace." Ser Symon said matter-of-factly. "He has two cousins, one of which has a son of three."

Rhaegar was aware it was the boy's father and the people who surrounded him who would rule Duskendale instead of the three-year-old until the boy came of age. He could only hope the man in charge would protect the Crown's interests in the upcoming years and that he had learned from Denys' Darklyn's mistakes. He had never wanted his reign to be stained with blood, but he had demonstrated that he wouldn't hesitate to spill it should it prove necessary. He wouldn't be second Maegor the Cruel, but he wouldn't be the second Aenys either. His intention was to follow in the footsteps of their father, whom his people respected and his enemies feared.

"I will proclaim the boy the next Lord of Duskendale tomorrow at midday." Prolonging their stay in Duskendale even for half a day was a delay he didn't want to make, but hopefully it would serve a greater purpose. If he named the new lord in person, in front of the entire populace of Duskendale, it might remain engraved into their memory longer than a written note to the new lord would have. The mercy their king had shown them would remain with them, which would make sure their loyalty from now on lay with him.

His gaze came to rest on Ser Symon again. "The people of Duskendale are to gather then in the yard to greet their new lord."

The man bowed his head again. "As Your Grace commands."

"And show us to where my men can rest." The king added as Ser Symon straightened up. "I trust there will be enough room for all of them?"

"You've brought quite a lot of men with you, Your Grace." Ser Symon shrugged his shoulders. "Those we can't house inside the Dun Fort will have to find somewhere to stay in the city."

"I want them all to have a roof above their heads." Rhaegar insisted unyieldingly. He didn't want his men to sleep in any poorer conditions than he would. "Can you ensure that?"

"I'll see what I can do." The man nodded. "I'll send a servant to take you to suitable rooms where you can rest."

Rhaegar nodded his permission for him to leave. After nodding at the king, the Hand and the Kingsguard, the man went to attend to his duties. After a few moments, a servant appeared at the door to take them to the rooms where they would spend the night. Arthur took his place in front of the door of the room Rhaegar would sleep in. Tywin Lannister was led further down the hall, but the king didn't wait to see where exactly the Hand would sleep. Now that the adrenaline had poured out of his veins, exhaustion washed over him and nearly knocked him off his feet before he reached the bed.

Unfortunately, just because his body desperately needed rest, it didn't mean his mind would allow it. The moment he closed his eyes, the sight that had been haunting him all day appeared in the blackness behind his eyelids.

Deep down, he knew he should be pondering the identity of the golden-haired man or the gory birth of the blue-eyed monster.

Yet he could think of nothing but _her_.

How could the one who would let death out into the world be so ethereally beautiful?

How could one look at her make him… _ache_ , make him feel this fervent yearning to…touch her, to hold her?

And to think years would pass before he could succumb to this craving, if death didn't take her before that, because she was still just a child. He could not desire her, not as she was now. It was…immoral, revolting even to look with lust upon a girl of just one-and-ten.

 _Aemma Arryn was wed to Viserys I. at one-and-ten._ A voice whispered temptingly into his ear. _And he didn't even know what a beauty she would become when she was older._

 _Yes, and look where it got them._ Rhaegar bit his lip, struggling to expel the debauched ideas from his mind. _Multiple miscarriages, a son who outlived his mother by a single day and one living daughter who later on started a civil war. This cannot happen._ He thought of blood uncannily red against the pure whiteness of snow. _Ever._

Had he not been given a reason? Had he not witnessed the birth of the blue-eyed monster from her blood?

' _Not blood._ ' She had murmured with the last ounces of strength as she was clutching her belly. Why would she have chosen those words to be her last? A prayer – or a warning? ' _Not strong enough. Blood within blood._ '

She had not cursed the golden-haired man for ending her life; instead she had begged him to do it. And then, at that last moment, it seemed she had changed her mind. She had been about to utter a name: Viserys, perhaps? But his brother was silver-haired like all Targaryens; he could not be the golden-haired man from the dream. Unless…

What if it was _their_ son who would kill her? Their son, named after his little brother, who looked exactly like her? How could he ever marry her, knowing their child was bound to make this fatal mistake?

He could never make her his. For her own sake, for the sake of the Realm, for the sake of the living.

But hadn't he sworn he wouldn't believe his dreams anymore? That he would leave prophecies and visions to the darkness? That he would embrace the present fully, instead of ignoring it in favour of the uncertain future?

( _Partially out of desire for peace of mind. Partially out of indignation._ _Who was it that chose which dreams came to him? Who was it that got to decide who lived and who died?_ )

After Father's death, he had vowed he would focus his efforts on doing right by his people, by his family. Rule the Seven Kingdoms justly. Ensure they prospered during his reign as they had during the rule of Jaehaerys I. or Viserys II. Find a suitable wife. Have a family. Make sure the Targaryen line continued and thrived.

His desires (or maybe it was the single merit of grief) had seemed enough to keep the dreams at bay. Since Father's death, they hadn't been plaguing his mind. His nights had been peaceful and silent. Dreamless.

And then he had dreamt of her. Of the golden locks covered in snow. Of the emerald eyes and the fading golden spark in them. Of the perfectly shaped lips turning blue as there was no more breath to keep them warm.

When he had woken up, he'd been shaking, in cold as much as in fear. The dream had felt simply too real, too palpable to ignore it. And evident against the cold, something raw and unrestrained, a fire he couldn't control or extinguish had been stirred within him. In the darkness of the night, it breathed life into her body, into her eyes. In return, her fire fed a hunger he hadn't even known existed. He was starved, desperate for a taste of her, his whole body so tense he thought his bones would collapse within him.

Just once. Years from now, when her beauty blossomed and she became even more beautiful than Shiera Seastar herself. When she was old enough so he wouldn't feel disgusted with himself for desiring her. If he could lay his hands on her _just once_ , feel her smooth skin beneath her fingertips, taste her lips…perhaps the spell of her would break. Perhaps he would be free of this strange notion that he would never lay eyes on a woman lovelier than her, that he had been irrevocably bound to her.

But they would both be married by then. Would they truly become like his father and her mother? How could he ever disregard his own wife after he'd witnessed what Father's disrespect had done to Mother? What if she were to birth a child that would look like him (or even worse, a golden-haired child that would grow up to become the man from his dream)?

It could never be. Deep down he had always known it; wasn't that the reason why he had sent Jon to look over her? Because he hoped Jon's honesty might do what his lies never could, drive her away? She had to be wed to another and taken somewhere far away from him. Or she would never wed. Perhaps it would be for the best that she never awoke.

The thought made his blood grow cold.

It wasn't even because she would never become the exquisite woman from his dream. To think he would never again have the chance to cross blades with her, to see the most endearing of frowns form on her face as she concentrated; he was suddenly covered in goosebumps, struggling to breathe.

He couldn't wish death upon her, for any reason. She was too young, too lively to die.

However, the idea of her at his side needed to die. No matter how much he didn't want to let her go, he had to.

He got up to his feet, opened the door and caught Arthur in the middle of an unconcealed yawn.

"Your Grace." The knight bowed hastily to hide the last remains of his momentary distraction.

At that moment, Rhaegar wouldn't particularly care if he had found the knight lying on the floor and snoring soundly, too lost in thoughts of what he intended to do. "Come in. I need to talk to you."

After years of acquaintance, Arthur was familiar with his sometimes odd requests at the oddest of hours. He didn't even raise an eyebrow, but walked past the king into the room. Rhaegar closed the door and turned to his friend, who stood at the foot of the bed, waiting patiently for him to speak. He could barely discern Arthur's figure in the darkness; his face was completely concealed in shadows.

"When we return to King's Landing…" Rhaegar took a deep breath, not knowing how to put his thoughts into words, "I can't teach Lady Lannister swordplay anymore."

Those weren't the words he'd intended to say; it was silly that he would lose sleep over such a trivial matter.

Arthur moved slightly; it looked like a slight shrug of shoulders. "You have other duties now. I'm sure she will understand."

Moments passed by, the silence disturbed only by the crashing of waves against the shore of Duskendale. It had finally stopped raining.

"Unless you want me to continue teaching her?" Arthur finally spoke again.

'Yes' lay on Rhaegar's lips. One last gift he could give her, something boys all over the Realm would do anything for and she would have it. But he couldn't. He had to severe the bond between them, cut the threads one by one until nothing linked them anymore. It was the only way.

"No." Did his voice sound so broken to Arthur as it did to him? "You have other duties too."

"Someone else then?" Arthur asked after another few moments of silence. "I'm sure I could find someone decent enough and willing to teach her."

"Her father would never allow it." She'd been absolutely certain of it. "I might be King, but I doubt Tywin Lannister would allow _anyone_ to tell him how to raise his own daughter. And you are the only one I would trust to keep the secret."

The two men fell silent again; the sea was the only one that continued to murmur softly, faraway, unintelligible words.

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but I must ask you." Arthur's voice was quiet, but clear, a tone that took Rhaegar back to his earliest memories. To a living, loving father who sang him a lullaby every night as Mother recovered from another miscarriage.

 _He would make a great father._ He thought regretfully as he observed the silhouette of his friend. Why had Arthur chosen life of a Kingsguard? It was a great honour, but it also demanded many great sacrifices. He'd never asked him.

"You were willing to risk so much for her." Arthur pointed out, unaware of his musings. "Only yesterday you were considering making her your Queen. What has changed?"

Rhaegar sighed; he was glad there was no light to expose his uneasiness. Nobody could see through him like Arthur could; this certainly wasn't the first time his perceptiveness had made him uncomfortable. Sometimes he had a feeling Arthur was too close to the answer, too close to thinking he was mad at the same time. Perhaps it was because he dreaded losing Arthur's respect and friendship that he'd never dared tell him about the dreams. It took experiencing it to believe it.

Still, he couldn't leave Arthur without an answer. He didn't want his friend to think his trust in him had been shaken.

He walked over to the window on the other side of the room, earning himself a few moments to think of a sensible answer. He leaned his hands onto the damp stone and looked outside. The moonlight reached out towards the sea through the clouds tentatively, like a bird that hid among branches the moment it sensed a threat. It would have been a soothing sight, if not for Rhaegar's inner turmoil.

"I have realized…" He took a deep breath; the scent of the sea lingered in his nostrils. "You are right. My fondness of her is clouding my judgement. I need to distance myself from her." _While I still can._ He turned to Arthur again, who hadn't moved a step. "Otherwise…I will keep making mistakes I can't afford to make."

The Kingsguard remained silent for a few moments, absorbing his words. Rhaegar was aware it wasn't exactly an honest answer, but it was all he could give.

"I am sorry if I have made you feel uncomfortable about your fondness of Lady Lannister. It was not my intention."

Arthur's response took him by surprise. He hadn't forgotten Arthur's advice, but his decision to distance himself from Cersei Lannister wasn't inspired by it.

"If you think she can make you happy…"

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Rhaegar interrupted his friend, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence.

For those few hours they spent together practicing swordplay, she _did_ make him happy. Watching her eyes sparkle as she fought to match him hit for hit, her passion and genuine delight reflected in them, made him feel like nothing else mattered in the world but him and her in that forsaken room. Like the only thing that mattered was to win the next duel and he didn't have to care what would happen tomorrow.

She made him feel _free_.

( _Strangely so, given that he felt so closely bound to her._ )

"You are aware the Hand expects the betrothal between you and Lady Lannister to be announced as soon as she awakes."

He nodded; Tywin Lannister had probably been expecting that moment since Lady Cersei's birth.

"I have to think of a reason for delaying my decision that would be acceptable to him." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "If I offend him, he might start working against me and I can't afford that, not so soon."

He ran his fingers through his hair and intertwined his fingers at the back of his neck. He'd only been King for a few short days and it was already draining him of every drop of physical and mental strength. How was this supposed to go on for years or decades? How was he supposed to shoulder all these responsibilities without cracking under pressure, especially if those whom he should be able rely on the most would only wear him down with their own hidden agendas and easily wounded pride?

"Given that you've had one of the hastiest coronations in history, I think no-one can object to you desiring a tad grander one." Arthur's voice grew quieter, becoming almost a whisper. Rhaegar was startled when he raised his head and realized the knight was standing at his side. "Lords from all the corners of the Realm will come to bend the knee and swear loyalty to you." He said firmly, his words painting the sight vividly. "They are all aware you are unmarried and will take the opportunity to introduce their daughters to you; you don't have to even say a word. It will give you a chance to consider other potential brides. If you do choose someone else, the Hand can't object, given that there has never been an official betrothal between you and Lady Lannister."

Rhaegar had to admit it was a rather brilliant plan. Subtle and cunning, just what it needed to be to withstand Tywin Lannister's judgement.

"Perhaps you should be King in my stead." He said and rubbed his itching eyes again. He was tired, in body and soul. "Unlike me, you know what you're doing."

Arthur's shoulders stiffened, so fleetingly Rhaegar wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. He let out a low chuckle and his posture relaxed again.

"It was just a moment of inspiration, Your Grace." However, his voice sounded strained to Rhaegar's ears. "And I believe you have what it takes to be a great king."

If only he could bring himself to believe that.

"I wish I wasn't King." The words rolled off his tongue almost absently. "Or if I have to be King, I wish I knew I was making the right decisions."

No answer came from Arthur. Perhaps he was stunned by such an unambitious statement, all the more shocking coming from a king. Tywin Lannister had devoted his life to ruling the Seven Kingdoms, even if he wore no crown on his head. His methods were merciless, but effective; nobody could deny he was good at his job. Why hadn't he been born a Targaryen?

( _An extremely terrifying thought. There had been too many of those tonight._ )

"What of Symon Hollard, Your Grace?"

One more matter he had no idea how to handle. A crime committed with good intentions was still a crime. If there was no punishment, suddenly every reason behind any crime would be painted as 'good intentions'.

"He can choose: the Wall or exile."

"I will let him know." Arthur nodded.

They stared at each other for another few moments, as if talking without words. Rhaegar wished he knew what to say.

"I have kept you long enough, Arthur." He tried his best to make his voice sound even, but he wasn't sure he was succeeding.

The knight, to his credit, gave no impression anything was out of the ordinary. He accepted the inept dismissal with a bow and withdrew, leaving the king alone in the room.

The exhaustion catching up with him again, Rhaegar dragged himself back to the bed and lay down. He kept his eyes open, aware of what awaited him should he close them.

The cruelty and unfairness of it all made him want to scream. Why couldn't have he known all he knew now before Cersei Lannister confided in him about her prophecy? He wouldn't have asked for her to come to King's Landing. He wouldn't have developed a soft spot for her. He wouldn't have envisioned a future where the two of them fought side by side, like Aegon and Visenya, and defeated any enemies that threatened them and _their_ kingdom.

The irony of it was laughing in his face; it had been just a dream.

* * *

Tywin had been a light sleeper all his life. Even the weakest noise was enough to wake him up; a talent that was quite useful whenever a swift reaction was necessary. However, it had its downsides.

He rose from the bed and walked towards the door, listening to voices arguing on the other side of it. They better had a damn good excuse for disturbing his rest.

"Milord." Two guards with the Lannister lion on their chests murmured the moment he opened the door. It was clear from their rigid posture they were aware how irritated he was.

He cared little for their fear of him if it didn't serve its purpose and kept them in check. He said nothing, waiting for them to gather the courage to try to explain what was so important that it couldn't have waited until he was out of hearing range.

"Milord, she…" One of the guards raised his head and swallowed hard the moment their eyes met. "She insisted she needed to speak with you, but we didn't want to disturb your rest, so we refused to let her pass."

"My rest is already disturbed." He dismissed the guard's excuse coldly, then turned his gaze to the woman who stood behind their back with a candle in her hands. "Lady Serala." His eyes narrowed as he studied her bruised face. What could she want at this hour?

"My lord." She still sounded as breathless as she had when they had spoken to her earlier. Her body shook slightly, as though she was barely keeping herself upright. Whatever reason she had come for, it must important. "May I…speak with you?"

He was of a mind to refuse her; she clearly needed a lesson in manners and denying her would ensure she learned it. However, curiosity overpowered annoyance and he found himself nodding. He opened the door wider, allowing her to enter. When she passed him by, he glared at the guards sharply, warning them wordlessly of the consequences should they breathe just a word of his visitor to anyone.

When he closed the door and turned on his heel, his eyes found Lady Serala leaning on the bedpost. He saw right through her pretence; she wasn't doing it for comfort's sake. He didn't offer her to sit down, not wanting to give up the advantage he would have once her body betrayed her. He could outsmart her without it, of course, but why give up a single weapon at his disposal?

"What brings you here at this hour, Lady Serala?" He asked directly, not in the mood for long, endless silences.

She raised her head and looked him right in the eyes.

"You haven't brought…your daughter with you." She pointed out, struggling to make her words audible among shallow breaths. "Where is she?"

He was caught off guard by her question; a state he loathed finding himself in. Why did she want to know Cersei's whereabouts?

"I don't see how that is any of your concern." He replied dismissively.

To her credit and his displeasure, her eyes never left his.

Foreigner or not, she must have been aware of his reputation. Yet she clearly wasn't intimidated by it, because she held his gaze almost effortlessly. Her posture was completely different than it had been in the king's presence, confident and determined. She didn't hide her injuries behind her long red hair, instead letting them be illuminated by the candlelight.

"Is it a lie then," The glint in her eyes was daring, even though there was no cheeky smirk playing on her lips, "That the Lannisters…always pay their debts? If I had known, I…wouldn't have helped your…daughter escape."

He had assumed Cersei must have been aided in her escape (by someone not very bright, because a smart person would have warned her not to go near the sea during a storm), but Lady Serala's revelation confused him. Cersei was the only leverage they had had; why would she have helped her escape? Had she counted with Rhaegar's decision to (too) mercifully offer them another chance to surrender?

Her features were hard to distinguish in the shimmering shadows. He made a few steps towards her; to his surprise, she didn't back away. She was quite a tall woman, he noticed, even though he was still looking down on her in the proximity they were standing in. The top of her head reached just past the tip of his nose, her forehead in level with his mouth.

( _She was taller than Joanna had been._ )

"I assume she has promised you something in return for your help."

He didn't ask what Cersei had promised her; he didn't care. Cersei wasn't there, neither to confirm Lady Serala's words nor to fulfil her end of the bargain. If she wanted to negotiate with him, Lady Serala would have to raise the stakes.

The red-haired woman nodded, obviously having misinterpreted his comment.

"Not only that, but…negotiated even better terms…for herself." Her eyes smiled at him, even if her lips did not. "You have raised a…very convincing negotiator…my lord."

Before he'd read that humiliating letter of Cersei's filled with begging unworthy of a Lannister, Tywin might have been inclined to agree. However, it seemed he had been mistaking thinking she had made progress. She was still just a silly girl who couldn't handle the world around her, just like the woman standing in front of him.

"If a girl of one-and-ten has outdone you, Lady Serala, I don't understand what you are doing here." He moved aside, leaving the space between her and the door unoccupied. Hopefully she wasn't so unintelligent that she wouldn't understand the message. "Flattering will get you nowhere. Nor will seduction."

She let out a choking sound that cost him the last remains of his patience. He couldn't believe his eyes; was she really that delusional to think tears would sway him…

She wasn't crying, he realized indignantly. She was _laughing_.

She was laughing at _him_. How _dare_ she? Had nobody told her what had happened to the last person who had been foolish enough to mock him?

"I don't have…such high opinion…of myself to think…I could seduce you…looking like this." She recovered from her fit of laughter sooner than he did, pointing at her injuries. "Besides, you are…expecting it. If I were…seducing you…you wouldn't realize…it was happening."

He crossed his arms over his chest, so she wouldn't notice his clenched fists. He could demand that she left instantly, but it would mean she had got best of him and he couldn't allow that. He needed to remain calm. She had come to him because she needed something from him; it would be twice the pleasure to deny her.

"If you have come here to exchange banters with me, I must disappoint you." There had only ever been two persons whom he allowed that liberty. Both were dead now. "I have no intention of indulging you."

The playful lines made by laugh vanished from her face. "It's a good thing…I have not come…to exchange banters…with you then." She said solemnly, her green eyes still glued to his. "Your daughter…promised me…her protection…From you."

He raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "What makes you think you are in need of protection from me?" He asked. _What makes you think Cersei could give you that?_

"Your reputation…precedes you…my lord." For a moment, her eyes betrayed her and she broke the eye-contact between them.

A wave of satisfaction rushed through him, almost enough to make the corners of his lips quirk upwards. Her unconcerned behaviour was just a façade that hid her fear of him. She might not be as naïve as he'd thought.

"You have…different plans for Duskendale…than the king." She said matter-of-factly; he didn't disagree. "Your daughter agreed…to speak to you…on my behalf and…to let me come to…the capital as her…lady-in-waiting in…exchange for my help."

His eyes narrowed at her distrustfully. Why would Cersei want her in King's Landing? Why would a woman used to privileges that came with being married to a lord even want to serve as somebody's lady-in-waiting? What would she gain by it?

"But my daughter is not here now." He pointed out, enjoying the way she bit her lip nervously; she probably wasn't even aware she was doing it. "Even if I believed you on your word that she had indeed promised you her help, why should I keep her promise, especially since you have no leverage over me?"

He approached her again, even closer than the first time. He could almost feel her scent in his nostrils. It was far from unpleasant. " _My_ protection costs, Lady Serala. What can you give me in return?"

He was impressed she still dared raise her head and meet his eyes, even if he could tell her breath was caught. Most of his opponents would have already broken by this point, but she held her ground.

"What do you want?" Her voice was loud and clear, but still sounded a touch breathless.

He felt a prick of disappointment; was she really trying to lure him into such an obvious trap?

"What are you offering?" His tone made it clear he wouldn't yield.

Once again, her expression made it seem she was grinning at him, but her lips didn't move. Maybe it was the matter of her eyes; they might be too expressive for her own good.

"You are the seller…you must name the price." Was that a note of playfulness he'd caught in her voice or was it her eyes that were teasing him? "I can only say…if it's acceptable…to me."

Despite his better judgement, he was intrigued by her, by her wit, by her nerve. He expected people to fear him and obey him, simply because he was smarter and more capable than them. But there had been rare few who showed potential to be his equals (though he made sure they never fulfilled it); he'd found that testing them entertained him, if only to show them how inept they were compared to him.

It had been a long time since he had last encountered someone clever enough to subtly challenge him without overstepping their boundaries. The strange thing was that the last person who knew how to walk that fine line had also been a woman.

However, he wouldn't even consider making a deal with Lady Serala without knowing her motive for it. She might prove to be an enjoyable temporary pastime, but he had no intention of letting her turn into a problem he would later have to deal with.

"Why would a woman of noble birth like yourself willingly become a servant to a girl of one-and-ten?" He asked in his best imitation of an indifferent tone. She couldn't know she had managed to arouse even a flicker of his interest.

Judging by that half-smile that twisted her features again, he might be losing his touch in that field. Uneven as it was, it made her injuries even more obvious, but surprisingly, the sight didn't make him recoil. He was far too interested in her wit to care for the damage on her face. Besides, it was only temporary; once she recovered…

"A girl of one-and-ten…who is rumoured to be…the future Queen." She said calmly, interrupting his musings. She didn't seem to have guessed his thoughts, which relieved his worries; he couldn't afford to be easily read. "Unlike my dead husband, I…know how to pick my battles… _and_ my allies."

He could appreciate that quality in her, if it wasn't a two-edged sword.

"Are you telling me I can expect a betrayal from you at some point?" He demanded sternly, not taking his eyes off hers.

The corners of her lips quirked upwards; her half-smile turned into half-smirk. "Are you telling me…you doubt your ability…to remain in charge?"

For a moment, he stared at her in silence, debating with himself whether to send her away immediately with a warning to never cross his path again…or with a command to gather her belongings, because from now on, she was to be a member of Cersei's household, which meant she would constantly be in close proximity to him – which was only important because he would need to keep an eye on her, of course.

"Cersei has enough maids and servants to attend to her needs." He said evenly, choosing to prolong making that decision for a little while longer. "Why would she need _you_?"

As if she could feel her fate hanging in the balance, her expression became appropriately serious again.

"I'm sure I can…teach her a few…useful things." She shrugged her shoulders in mock modesty. "Things only a woman…who has had a taste of marriage…and its dynamics…can teach her."

Tywin had to admit that could be quite a useful lesson. Cersei's marriage to Rhaegar wouldn't be of much use if she couldn't manipulate him into doing what she (or Tywin) wanted. There were indeed some things _he_ couldn't teach her.

( _It was supposed to be Joanna's duty, if that little beast had not killed her._ )

"The price is your indisputable loyalty to me and Cersei and you sharing your knowledge about those things with her."

Her eyes smiled instead of her mouth once more.

"An acceptable price, my…"

"And…" He interrupted her coldly. "Satisfying answers to a few questions."

Her eyes widened in surprise for a moment, but then she nodded.

"A day before King Aerys died, he demanded to see my daughter." If Tywin hadn't been studied her face so carefully, he would have missed it; a tiniest spark of recognition. "Who was there when he spoke to her?"

She didn't answer immediately, probably contemplating possible convincing lies.

"Just me and Denys." She said at last as she locked eyes with him again. Her voice had lost its earlier confidence; she was aware she was walking on thin ice.

He doubted she was lying; if she had said only Denys Darklyn had been there, he would have wondered how she could know that if she hadn't been there. From what he knew, people of Duskendale didn't regard her with affection; who would she want to protect?

"Your husband made a mistake of taking words of a dying man for unquestionable truth." He continued casually, but his gaze warned her of the consequences should she make the same mistake.

"My husband was…mad himself." She replied firmly. "Whatever he thought…he'd heard in that room…could have been his own mind…toying with him."

He nodded, satisfied with her answer. Still, he had one last question to ask.

"And what did King Aerys say to my daughter?"

"That she had…the beauty of her mother…but also the cold eyes…of her father."

Cersei's eyes were emerald. Nobody could misunderstand that.

"I'm glad we are in agreement each other, Lady Serala." He stepped backwards, giving her (and himself) some space. "I will see you in the morning."

Another half-smile creased her face as she curtsied. "My lord."

He followed her to the door. When she disappeared from sight, he turned to the guards whose expressions were carefully neutral.

"Not a word." He said evenly; they knew better than to risk his wrath by disobeying him.

* * *

 _She knew she was there._

 _Just like she knew when Jaime was there, even though she couldn't see him or hear him or touch him. Something had been stirred within her, a bond that couldn't be described, it was simply_ _ **there**_ _. For years and years she had felt the lack of tug at it painfully. When it had finally come alive, she didn't dare believe it._

" _Mother?" The word left her mouth nonetheless, or perhaps it was just a thought; it was impossible to tell in this world of nothingness._

" _Cersei." Came the soft reply, by the voice she had nearly forgotten._

 _She reached out into the dark – with her hand, with her mind, with her_ _ **everything**_ _– wanting to touch her, to press her body against hers and feel the warmth of her embrace. She wanted it more than anything, more even that…_

 _Suddenly she felt it – a barrier of some kind. She could sense Mother's presence on the other side. But it was hard to tell where exactly the barrier was; it was there and not there at the same time. How was she supposed to know where to go?_

" _If you come to me, you can never go back."_

 _She froze. "Mother?"_

" _And if you don't cross the barrier, you will both remain trapped here, in between life and death."_

 _It took a few moments for her to process Mother's words._

" _What do you mean 'you both'?" She asked. "You and I are the only ones here."_

" _You have extremely poor memory, girl." Another presence, closer to Cersei (if there were such things as closer and further in this place), spoke sarcastically._

" _The voice." She said without thinking._

" _Your Grace." The voice replied indignantly. "And here I thought you'd finally memorized it."_

" _What…How…"_

" _You're holding us both here." The voice cut her off irritably, not allowing her to finish a single question. "Cross the barrier."_

 _The voice had helped her escape Duskendale, but she still didn't fully trust it. Certainly not more than she trusted Mother. Joanna had said that if she crossed the barrier, she wouldn't be able to go back. Back to the world of the living._

" _I won't cross it." She said firmly. "I don't want to die."_

" _But_ _ **I**_ _do." The voice replied callously. "I have waited for more than two centuries to see my family again. I am not going back, not when I'm so close to reuniting with them."_

 _For some reason, the words shook her. They were said in a tone so…desperate. For the first time since she'd learned of the voice's presence, it sounded vulnerable. Its longing was so strong it couldn't hide it, as strong as Cersei's desire to reunite with Mother._

 _But she couldn't cross over, not yet. She couldn't die_ _ **now**_ _. She had to return to Rhaegar. She had to see Jaime again. She had to be Queen._

" _You will be reunited with your mother." The voice pointed out, like a predator that had sensed her weakness. It was clear it meant little to it where she ended up as long as it got what it wanted. "Isn't that what you want?"_

" _Not yet!" She screamed helplessly. The worst thing was that she wanted to reunite with Mother so badly, but she couldn't surrender to death knowing there was so much she should have done in life. "I need to go back! I need to live!"_

" _And why exactly do you need to live?" If the voice had a face, a beautiful face surrounded by silver hair, she could imagine the sneer curling its lips. "So you would follow your father's every word like an obedient pup?"_

 _That stung. Deeply._

 _She hated that Father was always right, more than anyone. Everything always turned out the way he'd said it would. She wished she could prove him wrong_ _ **just once**_ _– but she couldn't do that if she did what the voice wanted her to._

" _If you help me, I can best him." She promised. "But…"_

" _So you won't follow_ _ **his**_ _every word, but_ _ **mine**_ _?" The voice asked mockingly. "You'll just recite words of people smarter than you?"_

 _She was grateful for the darkness, for the nothingness of herself. Nobody could see the scars carved into her by Father's constant displeasure. Nobody could see how deeply the voice's comments cut, how cruelly they tore open countless wounds in her confidence. Everyone would always regard her as a broken toy, with contempt, because she simply wasn't good enough._

 _Maybe she should let go. Maybe she should join Mother in death. She wouldn't have to worry about the prophecy, about_ valonqar _, about anything. Who would even miss her?_

Jaime would. _She reassured herself. She and Jaime had entered this world together; how could he bear staying in it, knowing she wasn't there with him?_

And Tyrion would too. _The thought came to her uninvited, but there and then, she was thankful for it. She had been so mean to him and yet she couldn't convince herself he wouldn't miss her._

" _Mother?" She reached out to Mother's presence again, careful to remain on the right side of the barrier._

 _No answer came, but she was certain Mother was still there somewhere, so she spoke into the darkness: "Do you hate Tyrion for killing you?"_

 _The silence seemed to last a few lifetimes. When the answer finally came, she was caught off guard by it as much as by the sheer simplicity of it._

" _No."_

 _She had expected…she wasn't sure what exactly, but not that. She had not expected conflicted, complicated feelings she couldn't grasp. If Mother didn't hate Tyrion for killing her, did it mean Cersei's own hatred had been misplaced?_

 _She wanted Mother to explain it to her. One final memory of her that she could take with her back to the land of the living._

" _But you could have lived if he hadn't been born." She sounded like she was close to tears, but it was beyond her control, because she_ _ **was**_ _._ You could have been with me. There are so many things you could have taught me. You wouldn't have ridiculed me for not understanding them right away. You would have been patient with me.

 _She was crying for all she had lost when Mother died._

" _If I were alive, maybe I'd feel differently." Mother replied evenly. "But what matters to the living doesn't bother the dead."_

 _Her answer was so cold, so detached, as if she were just a shadow of Joanna Lannister Cersei remembered._

" _So you don't miss us?" She asked without meaning to; the words just flew out of her mouth frenziedly, on the wings of the ache she felt. "Me and Jaime and Father – and Tyrion?"_

" _I don't miss you." It wasn't even meant to be cruel, just the truth, but it still hurt. "I know you will join me one day. On this side, there's no difference between one day and a hundred years."_

 _It took her a few moments to realize what Mother was telling her. Even things such as passage of time or love shared among family meant nothing in death. If she crossed the barrier, she wouldn't care that Joanna was there with her. She wouldn't care that Jaime wasn't. She would simply_ _ **be**_ _there, just like all the dead. Just like the voice. Just like the voice's family._

" _I can't die." She said to Mother, to the voice, to herself. In death, she would be just one of many. In life, her existence wouldn't be meaningless. She wouldn't allow it. "I must go back." She sought out the voice's presence. "And you must go with me."_

" _You have the nerve to think you can command me?" The voice asked in indignation. "I told you; my family is waiting for me. I will not turn my back on them for any reason, especially not for you."_

 _If the voice didn't treat her so insolently, maybe she would pity it, just a little._

" _And I will not cross the barrier now, especially not for you." Her tone was poisonous; she was determined to match the voice cruelty for cruelty. "You can either go back with me and do something useful or be stuck here, with your family in your sight but out of your reach."_

 _Her challenge was met with a disdainful air of superiority._

" _You think you can resist the temptation of being in your mother's arms again?" The voice asked condescendingly. "You won't last a day."_

" _I will resist it, knowing I'm the reason_ _ **you**_ _can't cross over." It felt so good to set her maliciousness loose, to finally let out all the anger out. "You have treated me with no respect and a Lannister always pays her debts."_

 _It seemed she wasn't the only one with a mean streak._

" _In that case, I will collect the debt you owe me." The voice sneered viciously. "For letting your ancestors live instead of letting my dragon burn them all."_

 _For a moment, she was caught on the wrong foot, but pride kept her upright, her fury burning as hot as the fire of the voice's dragon._

" _There are no dragons anymore." She spat back. "It's just you and me now."_

 _Suddenly, the air between them grew tense._

 _The change in the air was intimidating; she could feel panic rising within her. It took all of her self-control to keep her composure and even so it was as fragile as glass._

" _You are just a silly girl and I was past my seventieth name-day when I died." The voice said at last. She recognized the tone – the one Father used when threatening people without actually uttering a threat. "Do you really think you stand a chance against me?"_

 _She indeed felt as if she was talking to Father. Her instincts urged her to withdraw while she still could, before she fully roused the voice's wrath._

 _But she refused to listen to them. She had to win this battle. She would go back and no nameless ghosts would stop her._

" _If you could do anything to me, you would already have done it." She said, glad her voice wasn't shivering. "You could have left me to rot in that cell and I might have died sometime during the siege. But you didn't. You said it was in your interest I stayed alive."_

 _The silence lasted longer than she'd expected._

" _My family is on the brink of extinction." The voice still sounded angry, but Cersei felt that anger wasn't directed at her anymore. "Because of stupid decisions they have made. I considered using you to bring the Targaryen name back to its former glory. But when I saw Aegon and Rhaenys, I…"_

 _It stopped talking abruptly, having realized it had unintentionally given too much away, but Cersei had heard enough to finally guess its identity. For a few moments, she could do nothing but try to wrap her head around it in astonished fascination._

" _You are Visenya Targaryen, aren't you?" She blurted out, unable to keep her conclusion to herself._

 _After another few moments of silence, a reply came._

" _Yes, I am."_

 _Queen Visenya. She was talking to Queen Visenya. One of the greatest women in history. The woman she aspired to be like. She was so awestruck she couldn't utter a single word._

" _Now that you know who I am, are you more inclined to do as I say?"_

 _That quickly snapped Cersei out of her amazement. She had no intention of dying, even if it was ordered by the queen she worshipped. Besides, Visenya she had read about wasn't known for being sentimental. The woman from the history books would take the chance to be Queen once again without a second thought; she wouldn't long for the brother who had shunned her because of her younger sister._

" _Why do you want to reunite with them so badly?" If the voice wanted her to believe it was indeed Visenya Targaryen, it would have to prove it. "If I were you, I would never want to see them again after what they'd done to you."_

 _She could sense Visenya's ire lingering in the air again._

" _What are you talking about?" The queen demanded sharply._

" _Aegon loved Rhaenys better and scorned you by marrying her too." Cersei explained, suspicious that Visenya (or the voice pretending to be Visenya) hadn't thought of it at once. How was that not a reason for an eternal grudge? "I would never forgive him. Or her, for taking him from me."_

" _Aegon married Rhaenys because I'd told him to."_

 _Now it was Cersei's turn to fall silent. She couldn't even begin to understand why any woman would ask her betrothed to wed another woman on the same day._

" _I loved Rhaenys as much as I loved Aegon and no-one else could ever be good enough for her." Visenya explained with gentleness in her voice Cersei had never witnessed before. "She was free to seek other lovers, of course. We never intended to tame her."_

" _But…It's said that for every night with you, he spent ten nights with her…"_

" _All true." Visenya confirmed. "I refused to be restrained by the responsibilities of a mother. I would only allow him to come to my bed when I was certain I couldn't become pregnant with child."_

 _Cersei was shocked that a woman could control her husband like that._

" _And Rhaenys…"_

" _Their nights together were more often spent in talking than in fucking." It was strange to behold the woman who had been so malicious and sarcastic to Cersei speak so affectionately of someone, especially while using swear words. "She made him happy in ways I never could – and the other way around. Our marriage was perfect, just the way it was."_

 _Cersei absorbed every word, trying and failing to reconcile them with the stories of the Conquerors she was familiar with. The details were there, but they were twisted beyond recognition._

" _Why isn't it written that way in the history books?" She asked absently, unaware she'd spoken out loud. Why would maesters record it all wrong?_

" _Because they are written by biased hands." Visenya spat contemptuously. "Those who knew more than the Citadel wanted them to, including me, were always the thorns in its heel. We needed to be made untrustworthy, vile and cruel."_

 _Cersei struggled to collect her thoughts. It was hard to believe everything she knew could be a lie. However, despite their previous argument, she was inclined to believe Visenya. Her confession sounded heartfelt, her anger warranted, her love for her siblings genuine._

" _I was so rarely spoken of after Maegor's reign that I never got the chance to learn how much my reputation had been stained." Visenya continued, filling the silence that had spread in the absence of Cersei's answer. "I should have realized it. Quite a few girls in our family have been named after my sister, but there was only one Visenya after me."_

 _Cersei knew whom she was speaking of._ Rhaenyra's stillborn daughter.

" _I will go back with you."_

 _Cersei was taken aback once again, but this time it was in a good way._

" _Really?" She nearly squealed in delighted._

 _Queen Visenya would help become the great queen she'd always wanted to be. Together, they would change history – and make sure it was written right this time._

" _Yes."_

 _Why did that one word suddenly sound so ominous?_

" _Don't think I have forgotten your insolence, Cersei Lannister." Visenya's voice grew colder with each word; by the time it uttered Cersei's name, it was icy. "Like your father, I am not prone to forgiveness. And I have as much interest in your death as in your life."_

 _For the first time during their conversation, Cersei felt truly scared. Heated, imminent threats she could handle, but those that were cold, calculated and utterly unpredictable, like Maggy's prophecy, made blood freeze in her veins._

" _So…" She was choking on the words, "You are saying I can't trust even you?"_

" _You can trust me to work in my own best interest." Visenya's sweet tone cut like a blade. "Just like everyone else."_

 _Suddenly, Cersei wasn't so sure life was the better option._

" _Say your goodbyes to your mother." The queen commanded. "It's time you tried to wake up."_

 _As caught up in conversation with Visenya as she'd been, Cersei had completely forgotten about Mother. She reached out into the darkness again, looking for Joanna with desperation of a pup chased by a hunter. She needed to feel warm and safe, one last time, before she was left at the mercy of Visenya Targaryen._

" _Mother?"_

 _But Joanna wasn't there. She had disappeared._

 _Cersei knew Visenya was around; she refused to break in front of her. Wherever Mother had gone to, they would meet again one day. Until that moment came, even if Joanna couldn't miss her daughter, Cersei would miss her._

 _She was about to try to fight her way out of the darkness when she sensed another presence._

" _Remember, Cersei. The prophecy will come true."_

 _She reached into the darkness, but Melara was already gone._

* * *

Jon watched the golden-haired girl's chest rise and fall, hoping they would stop moving of their own accord.

He had thought of tipping the scale in the favour of death with a drop of poison, but he knew he would never be able to look Rhaegar in the eyes after that. It would be as good as a confession and he wouldn't be able to bear his disappointment, his hatred. No, if Cersei Lannister died, it would be because she was too weak, not because Jon pushed her over the edge.

However, waiting for the outcome frustrated him immensely. Why had Rhaegar chosen him for this task? Had he somehow learned of his affections and done this to make fun of them? He was supposed to be on the battlefield, not watch over an unconscious girl, the girl who would steal Rhaegar from…

She screamed so suddenly he nearly fell of the chair he was sitting on.

"What the…" He began, but then fell silent as her hand grabbed his and held it against her chest like it was the most precious thing she possessed.

It took him a moment to realize her whole body was shaking. Her eyes were shut, but tears were pouring down her face nonetheless.

He had no idea what to do; how did one handle sobbing girls?

"Lady Lannister." He said, trying to gently remove his hand from her grasp. She held him so tightly he feared it might stop his bloodstream. "If you would let me go, I will get the maester."

She opened her eyes then and really looked at him. She probably hadn't even realized who he was when she woke up.

( _She probably thought – or hoped – he was Rhaegar._ )

"My-y-lo-o-rd." She stuttered through tears; his hand remained locked in hers. She glanced around, but her eyes returned to his very quickly. "Whe-where am I? What's happen-ned?"

Jon didn't want to answer her questions; he didn't want to have anything to do with her at all. His duty was to take her to Grandmaester Pycelle, nothing more. She meant nothing to him. On the other hand, being rude to her was probably a bad idea. She was the Hand's daughter and Tywin Lannister wouldn't tolerate any such behaviour towards his precious daughter.

"You weren't waking up after you'd been rescued from the sea." He said, trying to make his voice lose the animosity he felt towards her. "Your father insisted you were taken to Grandmaester Pycelle and the king sent me to look after you."

He'd thought his words would make her smile; she should be delighted to learn Rhaegar had tasked one of his best friends with watching watch over her. But with her short hair, tearstained face and a cut on her temple, she still looked like a lost pup that was kicked on the street by every passer-by. There was a heartbroken look in her green eyes, as though she would never smile again; despite himself, Jon felt sorry for her.

How close to death had she been? What had she seen on the other side?

"You are safe here, my lady." He told her, more kindly than he'd even thought he'd speak to her. "We will reach King Landing soon. If you would just let me summon the maester to check on you until…"

"No!" Her grip on his hand tightened even more and her eyes widened, letting more tears fall. "Please," She breathed out softly, "Stay here. Don't leave me alone."

Jon was at a complete loss. The girl he had sworn to despise begged him to remain at her side. Part of him wanted to yank his hand out of hers and leave her to her despair, but he couldn't find it in himself to say no to her.

Rhaegar would be grateful to him if he stayed.

"Alright." He conceded. "I will stay. The maester will check on you at some point anyway."

She nodded gratefully. He couldn't quite bring himself to smile reassuringly at her, so he nodded in return. She didn't seem to mind; surprisingly, neither did he. She kept holding his hand even when she closed her eyes, as if it was a thread that linked her to the world of the living and if she let go, she would slip back into the arms of death.

For Rhaegar, he allowed it.

 **As many of you have guessed it, the voice is Visenya. Some of you suggested there were (perfectly good) reasons why it couldn't be her, but I'm asking you to trust me. All will be explained as the story goes along.**

 **I hope you liked the chapter :)**


	14. XIV

Various shades of blue were slowly creeping across the sky, conquering gold and red on their path to the west like waves of the sea below washed over the shore. Tiny silver stars popped up out of nowhere, one by one, like children gathering to play somewhere forbidden, always looking about, unsure whether the game was worth the risk of being caught. The sky was clear, not a single cloud in sight – a perfect sunset, one might say.

So different from the night before – in more ways than one.

Serala couldn't tell why she constantly caught herself looking over her shoulder, towards north-east. Duskendale was long gone from her sight. Even if it wasn't, it hadn't exactly been her home. People there held no love for her; neither did she for them. She had no friends there. It had been her husband's home, not hers.

Then again, Myr had also rarely felt like home. Only in those moments when Father had been away on business and Serala and her sisters had had the whole house to themselves. Home was not a place, but a sound. Of all things from her youth, she only remembered the sound of laughter. She couldn't even say whose. Marya's or Laena's or Nyanna's or her own – or all of them.

 _If I had banished together with Symon, maybe…_

She shushed that thought before it could be completed. There was no use dwelling on it. She was to remain in Westeros and thinking about her younger sisters in Essos would lead her nowhere. Even if she'd been sent into exile to Essos, there was no guarantee she would have even crossed paths with any of them or that they would have recognized her. She hadn't seen them in years, since she'd left Myr to marry Denys. Their features were blurred in her memories; she doubted her face was any clearer in theirs.

Denys would one day fade from her memory too.

A twinge of remorse accompanied that thought. Part of her did miss him and regretted his fate. Her life with him hadn't been bad (until the point he'd beaten her half to death, of course). He had been kind to her. He had never forced himself upon her. He hadn't been cross with her because of the lack of heirs. _We are both still young_ , he would say whenever somebody brought the matter up, _besides, the thought of sharing my wife's attention, even with our children, isn't really that appealing to me. In a year or two, maybe I will be more receptive to it._

If nothing, she could always count on him to defend her.

Perhaps that was the reason she'd been looking back since the moment she'd ridden out of the Dun Fort with the royal army. She had left the only place where she'd ever felt safe and protected.

Some had armies and thick stone walls to protect them. Some had the intimidating air around them. Some had gold that could buy them protection. Some (like Tywin Lannister) had it all. Her only protection was her wit. Although she did consider herself quite smart, it was a terrifying realization. It made her feel extremely vulnerable. One wrong word to the wrong person at the wrong time and she could lose everything.

"Lady Serala." The sudden call startled her, making her flinch in surprise. Her unhealed ribs protested painfully and she winced, her hand instinctively clutching her torso.

"Pardon me, my lady." The male voice said more softly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She turned around and saw Ser Arthur Dayne standing a few steps away from her in his spotless white armour. As her eyes met his, Serala was once again struck by the similarities between the knight and the young king. She didn't know enough about history of the royal family to know whether they might actually be related, but with silver hair and violet eyes, they certainly looked like brothers.

"Ser Arthur." She curtsied as best as she could without subjecting herself to another wave of pain. "What can I…do for you?"

"The king wants to speak to you." He replied as she straightened her back again.

His answer caught her off guard, making her swallow a (hopefully inconspicuous) lump down her throat. What could Rhaegar Targaryen want from her? If he had something against her staying in King's Landing, why hadn't he voiced his objections before they'd left Duskendale?

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She was probably just being paranoid after thinking about what her departure for the capital meant. There was no reason to suspect the young king had something sinister in store for her.

"Well," A smile as wide as her injuries would permit it spread over her face, concealing her uneasiness, "We better not…keep His Grace…waiting."

The Kingsguard gestured to her to go first. She picked up the skirts of her dress and headed for the largest tent that had not an hour earlier been put together in the middle of a valley where the sundown had caught up with them. She strode through the labyrinth of tents, feeling quite a few gazes on her. She was uneasily aware she was the only woman among thousands of men, but kept her head high and walked forward without making eye-contact with any of them. She had to appear distant and untouchable, as though she was absolutely confident none of them could lay a finger on her, because she had the king's or the Hand's protection.

She halted in front of the large, crimson tent that belonged to the king and let Ser Arthur enter first. She used the moment when his back was turned to wipe her sweaty palms against the skirts of her dress and take another deep breath. Everything would be fine; she just needed to remain calm.

"Lady Serala, Your Grace." She heard Ser Arthur announce before he turned to her again and beckoned to her to enter.

She was greeted by the sight of Rhaegar Targaryen sitting at a wooden table, without the crown on his head, staring at an empty piece of parchment before him as if her arrival had interrupted him in the middle of formulating a letter. She curtsied without a sound, but kept staring at him through her eyelashes, waiting for him to speak. After a moment of silence, he raised his head and looked at her.

"My lady." He gestured at her to sit on one of the other chairs surrounding the table.

She wasted no time obeying that command. Since her last encounter with Denys, she tired quickly, as though her injuries were sucking the strength out of the rest of her body and it seeped out through the broken bones.

"Do you want some wine?" The king asked as soon as she sat down.

She nodded and he motioned to a servant, a brown-haired, blue eyes boy a few years younger than him, to pour her a goblet of the crimson liquid. She drank slowly, sip by sip, careful not to spill a single drop. Carelessness would ruin her emerald dress and could perhaps make her lower her defences.

Glancing at the king through her eyelashes, she wondered if that was his intention, if he was capable of such trickery. He was so young, his features still smooth, almost childlike. He wasn't sure how old he was, but she assumed he was at least five or six years younger than her. He _was_ handsome, but between the two silver-haired men that were present in the tent, she definitely preferred the knight. Ser Arthur had something about him that drew her attention and held it, a quiet but undeniable confidence that he exhibited no matter who he faced. He was very similar to the king in appearance, but his posture resembled Tywin Lannister more, even if he didn't sport the sharp edge the Hand's every gaze possessed. Next to him, Rhaegar Targaryen looked…well, not as impressive as he might have if his Kingsguard wasn't so appealing.

Unfortunately, the more fascinating object of her musings had left her sight and she was left alone with the king, save for the young servant. It was for the best, she decided with a brief sigh of disappointment, she couldn't afford distractions anyway.

"How are you feeling?" The king asked kindly, not taking his eyes off of hers, despite the less than attractive state of face. Nobody could fault him for a lack of manners, she would give him that.

"Better." She said softly, lowering the goblet onto the table and intertwining her fingers on her lap. It wasn't exactly true, but he didn't need to know that. "Thank you…for your concern…Your Grace."

He nodded in acknowledgement of her gratitude, but said no more on the matter.

"Lord Tywin has told me you are to become a part of his daughter's household."

He had obviously tried to keep his tone soft, but she sensed a suspicious edge to it which made her more cautious.

"Yes." She didn't nod, keeping her eyes on his instead. "Lady Lannister and I…made a deal."

His violet eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of a deal?"

She thought her answer over as carefully as she could, knowing that too long a silence wouldn't help her. How much should she tell him?

"If I help her…escape Duskendale…she will ensure…I don't pay the price…of my husband's…foolishness." She said, leaving the Hand's involvement out for the time being. She doubted the king would be pleased if he learned what she had promised to Tywin Lannister in exchange for his protection. It would also render the lessons she was supposed to teach Cersei Lannister useless and nothing would be preventing the girl's father from leaving her to fend for herself. "I realized Denys…was fighting a lost…battle, even if…he didn't."

The king nodded, his long white hair falling down on the sides of his face.

"So, your husband's attack on you was not as _unprovoked_ as you made it seem." He said after a brief silence. Softness had vanished from both his gaze and his voice, leaving distrust in its stead.

It took all of Serala's self-restraint not to wince when her heart started pounding painfully against her ribcage. She had to remain calm. She had had a lot of practice in outsmarting boys and this one, even if he was King, was no different.

"I couldn't have…confessed the truth…to you right away," She looked him directly in the eyes; for a moment, it felt strange to defend herself by telling the truth, "I was afraid for…my life. The maester was…loyal to Denys despite…everything. He would have seen…my act as treason…I couldn't risk him…poisoning me under the…disguise of treating me."

The long speech robbed her of strength, but she couldn't afford too long a pause. She still had his attention, so she continued as soon as she caught her breath.

"By helping Cersei Lannister…escape, I spared myself the…fate that awaits every…woman in the aftermath…of a battle." She wasn't foolish to think he'd believe that her actions had been stirred by the goodness of her heart. If she admitted to selfish motivation, he might be inclined to believe the rest as well. "My actions helped…prevent bloodshed and…saved you valuable time…and men. As for Denys…if your father had…lived, he would have…used him as leverage…just as he did with…Lady Lannister. His life…was forfeited either…way."

She took another sip of wine to moisten her dry mouth. There was nothing else she could do but wait for his answer.

His gaze still had a sharp edge to it, like he was observing a puzzle he wanted to solve, turning over each and every piece of her story to see how they fit together. If the solution continued to elude him, she had a feeling he would rather burn the puzzle than let it stay unsolved.

"Was your husband – or anyone in Duskendale – responsible for my father's death?" His voice was admiringly calm, cold as the northern wind.

It would be easy to pin the crime on the man who couldn't defend himself from the accusations, but there was no need for it, as the truth was so simple. Denys could be accused of many crimes, but regicide wasn't one of them.

"Your father died…from his wounds…Your Grace."

His glare washed over her face several times, trying to find indications that she was lying in her features. She returned his gaze steadily; this time she was actually telling the truth.

"And the bandits?" He demanded after a few moments of tense silence. "No-one from Duskendale had anything to do with the ambush?"

"No, as much as I…know." She shrugged her shoulders. She _could_ point out a more probable culprit, but she might as well find a dagger and run it through her heart then. No, she would avoid mentioning the Hand in any context if she could. "Your father was worth more…alive than dead…to my husband. None of…us knew Lady Lannister was…riding with him." _None of us counted with another hostage_.

The intensity of his gaze lessened a little as he considered her words. She didn't interrupt the silence, letting him realize no-one in Duskendale could have benefited from King Aerys dying within its walls. If Cersei Lannister hadn't been brought to the Dun Fort so swiftly, his death would have just about ended the rebellion.

"But why would a woman of your station agree to such terms?"

Startled, she blinked in confusion. "Your Grace?"

"You were married to a lord and now you will be just a servant." He elaborated, his tone just a tad too deliberate to be innocent.

Unfortunately, she was too clever to fall prey to such an obvious scheme.

"Another one of Lady Lannister's…demands was that I became…one of her maids." She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "I had no choice…but to accept."

He paused for a split of a second and his mask broke, revealing his displeasure. Her guess was that he'd expected to learn something useful from her.

"And why was she suddenly in great need of another maid? Why _you_?" His tone was suspicious rather than mocking, but she still found herself offended. He made it sound as though she was the lowest of scum, unworthy of breathing the same air as the nobility that surrounded her.

Her tone grew colder without her intention. "Her reasons are...her own. She chose not to...confide them in me."

His pale brows furrowed, because of her tone or her failure to answer his question, she couldn't say.

"You must have some idea why she would ask that of you." He insisted firmly. "Something you said or did."

She nearly snorted crossly, but with a sharp bite on the inner side of her cheek, she managed to rein her frustration in. Hadn't it crossed his mind that she had thought every conversation she'd ever had with Cersei Lannister over, trying to realize what lay behind the girl's demand? It seemed he was no different than any man when it came to his views on women. Lack of cock equalled the lack of brain in their minds, which was quite ironic, given what thinking with their cocks instead of their heads cost so many members of male sex.

With some struggle, she managed to retain a calm demeanour and shrug her shoulders again. He could ask as many questions as he wanted, but she couldn't give away secrets she didn't know.

"Maybe she just wanted…to humiliate me." The words came out of nowhere; the thought hadn't crossed her mind before, but once it appeared, it did make sense. "My husband kidnapped…her. Even if he'd…lived, he would have been…out of her reach, on the Wall…in exile or executed…I, on the other…hand, am now bound…to do her bidding…no matter how…"

"No." He cut her off sharply before she could finish the sentence. He said no more, but his eyes burned with conviction. He was absolutely certain Cersei Lannister was above such cruelties.

 _She wasn't above leaving that boy to bleed out on the floor of her cell._

Serala could tell the young king the truth about the girl's escape, but slandering her wasn't in her interest. He was going to learn eventually Cersei Lannister wasn't as innocent as he regarded her, but he wouldn't learn it from her.

"You will have to…ask her for an…explanation then…Your Grace."

Hopefully, she would be somewhere close by to hear it.

He observed her thoughtfully for a few moments, pondering what to say next. She sat still and waited patiently, a sight of a person who had nothing to hide.

"Why would Lord Tywin allow it?" He said at last.

She raised her eyebrows, indicating a need for a clarification.

"You were married to a man who kidnapped his daughter." He pointed out. "The Hand is many things, but forgiving and trusting he is not."

She couldn't agree more, but she couldn't let him know that. She also couldn't let him know Tywin Lannister's motive for allowing her to become one of his daughter's maids. There was really only one reasonable course of action.

"It is a question…only he can answer." She replied with another shrug of shoulders. "Whatever his reasons…may be, I am grateful…he permitted it. If he…hadn't…" She swallowed a visible lump down her throat, but it wasn't entirely pretence, "I have nowhere else…to go."

His expression softened then, as she'd hoped it would. Little pity went a long way in this sort of games and she would use every bit of it to her advantage.

All of a sudden, he pulled the piece of parchment he'd been studying earlier closer, grabbed a quill and dunk its tip into ink. He wrote down a few words, which she was only able to read after he'd turned the parchment around.

She had clearly misjudged his expression. Whatever feelings the sight of her inspired in him, pity wasn't one of them.

 _ **I need you to be my eyes and ears in the Hand's household.**_

Her heart was thundering in her ears as she read the note one more time, just to be sure her eyes weren't deceiving her.

Not even in her wildest dreams would she have seen this coming. He wanted her to spy on the richest, most powerful, most terrifying man in the Realm for him. He wanted to be sure Tywin Lannister wasn't using his wealth and influence to undermine him. He wanted her to provide him with information he could use to keep the Hand under control. And she was as if made for the task – someone who felt no true loyalty to the House Lannister, whose duty would be to linger in the shadows, always attentive, but never seen. Someone who, as he'd been aware of, even before her confession, had nowhere else to go. If he couldn't convince her to do his bidding, he would make sure she was silenced instead.

Did he not understand what risks his demand held for her? If she was found out…was it even in his power to protect her from Tywin Lannister's wrath? Would he even bother to try?

Perhaps, she mused sourly as he observed the young king, he and Cersei Lannister were made for each other. They were innocent as lambs on the outside, but wolves lurked beneath their skins.

On the other hand, lambs were so easily torn apart. Wolves were survivors.

What choice did she really have at the moment? She couldn't refuse him – there was only one answer she could give.

She nodded.

His violet eyes stared at her piercingly for a few more moments, judging her honesty, her loyalty. Then he lifted the parchment off the table and brought it close to the flame of a candle. As the parchment caught on fire, she caught sight of a face drawn on the other side from the words he'd written. A beautiful woman she didn't recognize.

 _Who is she?_

"You are allowed to retire, Lady Serala." He said, making her eyes flicker to his face again.

The last flashes of softness were gone from his features, leaving only a sharp gaze behind. He didn't take well to her attempt to figure out who the mysterious woman was. The storm in his violet eyes told her it was none of her business.

She knew better than to challenge him. As soon as 'Your Grace' rolled off her lips, she rose from her seat, curtsied and withdrew as fast her legs would carry her. At the entrance she almost collided with Ser Arthur, but she was too distracted by her conversation with the king to appreciate the feeling of his hand on her upper arm steadying her. She only managed a quiet 'Thank you' before she marched away from the king's tent, completely unaware of where she was heading. She could have walked straight into the Narrow Sea or back to Duskendale if a tall figure didn't intercept her.

"What did the king want from you?" It took her a moment to recognize the owner of the voice as Tywin Lannister.

Her heart was thundering in her ears as her eyes met his. Once again, she was at a loss, in a situation where a silence was as much of an answer as any. If he realized she was trying to hide the true reason why the king had summoned her, he would dub her unreliable and worthless to him. On the other hand, if she told him what had occurred in the king's tent, her fate would be irreversibly tied to him. While he _was_ a most desirable ally, did she really want to turn her back on the king so soon? However powerful Tywin Lannister was, it was Rhaegar Targaryen who wore the crown. He was younger; if fate was kind to him, he might live longer.

The answer was right in front of her, yet she was afraid to acknowledge it.

The only way to be sure she would win the game…was to play both sides.

"He wanted…" She breathed in deeply and licked her suddenly dry lips, "To know my reasons…for coming to the…capital."

As she'd expected, his eyes narrowed, betraying his distrust of her. "And what did you tell him?"

She returned his gaze steadily. "The truth." She breathed out. "In a men's world…women must stick together…to survive."

She couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw his lips quirk up briefly at the corners, as if he found her remark amusing – or ironic. It could have just as well been just her imagination; the shadows were already covering a good part of his face and he wasn't known for expressions that in any way resembled a smile.

"And he didn't mind the fact that the agreement between you and my daughter cost one of his lords his life?"

"He did." There was no point in denying that. "But I was kind…enough to point out…that particular lord had…forfeited his life when…he kidnapped His…Grace's father."

The sharpness of his gaze lessened slightly; it seemed her words had managed to convince him she had handled the king's suspicions well. She could still be of use to him, a whetstone that would sharpen the sword whose blade would always stand at the king's back, ready to protect or to strike.

But what if she just pretended to be a tool and took control of the sword herself? What if didn't have to play against the king and the Hand alone? What if she had the future queen at her side, who had as much to gain by beating them in the game as Serala did?

 _In a men's world, women must stick together to survive. In Duskendale, we survived. In King's Landing, we could do so much more._

"If you will excuse…me, my lord, I would…like to retire."

She doubted she would sleep though. Her mind was already juggling a dozen different ideas on how to influence Cersei Lannister and make the girl dance to her tune. She had been caught off guard by her intelligence once, but she wouldn't underestimate her again. Everybody had a weakness. Everybody wanted something.

"Your presence distracts the men." He stated firmly, just as a group of soldiers passed by, close enough to hear him. "I will not have this army dissolve into chaos because of one woman."

Feeling the men's eyes on them, she bowed her head so lowly her chin came to rest on her collar bone. They saw a repentant woman ashamed of her sex, of being a temptation to the honourable men that surrounded her.

"What does my…lord command?" She asked quietly, even though she could guess the answer. The real question was _why_. Did he want to make sure she was out of the king's reach…or was his command driven by less calculating motivations?

Without a word, he gestured at her to follow him. He didn't even look back to check if she did. His strides were long and swift and she was forced to half-run after him like a scorned pet following its master, which all too soon made her struggle for breath. No doubt he acted so intentionally. In the eyes of the men, he had to appear above desires of the flesh, like he would only tolerate her presence in his tent for the sake of the peace in the army. Judging by the lack of conspiratorial whispers and laughter, they either decided to save their opinions for the time when the Hand was out of hearing range or they actually believed the sight he presented them.

Once inside the tent, they were served meat, bread and fruit. The servants sauntered around fully focused on their tasks, as though they didn't dare even glance at their lord and his guest. Serala expected him to break the silence at any moment, but he never did. He didn't even bid her goodnight as they strode to the opposite sides of the tent.

She lay down quickly with her back to him and wrapped silken sheets around her shoulders, listening to the sounds of him changing, but managing to resist the temptation to steal a look or two. She wondered if he looked at her, if he considered insisting she changed into one of the nightgowns she had brought with her. He might be the most powerful man in Westeros, but he was still a man. He had desires, urges. Did the thought of her naked body arouse him?

Did the thought of his naked body arouse _her_?

She shook off the notion before a spark of warmth in her lower abdomen could turn into fire and closed her eyes. She had more important things to think about. Lessons she needed to teach Cersei Lannister. _Lesson one: don't get lost in your own deceits._

* * *

When Grandmaester Pycelle entered the room for the second time that morning, Cersei was on the brink of jumping to her feet and running away, not caring that she was barefoot, wearing only a thin white nightgown and was unfamiliar with this part of the Red Keep. Until he proclaimed her fully recovered, the Grandmaester insisted she remained at hand, so she slept in one of the empty rooms a corridor away from his chambers instead in her own chambers in the Tower of the Hand. She had been confined inside these four walls since she'd come back to King's Landing and had received no visitor (that dared speak to her) apart from the man whose company at this point she could barely stomach. He had no notion of personal space, his breath smelled sourly and his hands wandered over her body more freely than she was comfortable with. He excused it all with his desire to make sure her injuries were fully mended. Cersei knew little of healing, but damn it, it couldn't _possibly_ be necessary that he assessed the rate of her heartbeat by pressing his sweaty palm against her chest five times a day.

"Has my father sent word?" She asked curtly before the man could say anything, not caring that she was being discourteous. Perhaps her rudeness would make him keep his distance. "Is he on his way back?" _He better be. I can't stand being locked inside this room for a moment longer._

"I haven't received any word from him, my lady." The Grandmaester's voice sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth (it was impossible to tell with his mouth concealed by those whitening bushes he called beard), but he knew better than to display any disrespect openly if he wished to keep them. "As I have already sworn to do, I will let you know as soon as I do."

By the gods, that condescending tone alone made her want to command his tongue be cut off, so he could never produce it again. It took all of her will-power to keep her fury under control.

He moved further into the room, making her flinch away from him instinctively. "You have visitors." He announced with a note of respect in her tone that, she realized a moment later, was not meant for her. "Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys."

 _The queen?_ Cersei's heart started thundering inside her ears, causing a mild headache to spread from the cut on her temple. She was not prepared, not dressed properly, she had no servants at hand to bring them refreshments and with the only furniture in the room being the bed she was sitting on and a chamber pot she couldn't even offer the queen and the prince a place to sit down.

She had half-opened her mouth to tell the Grandmaester to send them away (she didn't care how), but the queen had already appeared at the door, with the young prince in her arms and an affectionate smile on her face, making Cersei freeze mid-breath.

Still in mourning for her dead husband, Queen Rhaella was dressed completely in black, while Prince Viserys was wearing black breeches and a crimson tunic, the Targaryen colours. The black gown made the queen's pale hair and complexion even paler and her violet eyes even more prominent. Surprisingly, there were no dark bags under her them, no new lines on her face, no sign of sleepless nights. Cersei couldn't help but think that the colours of death suited Queen Rhaella; she looked more alive than she'd ever seen her.

"Your Grace." She pushed the sheets off her body hurriedly, rose to her feet and curtsied with as much gracefulness as she could muster in a simple nightgown before the queen could dismiss her gesture with a soft murmur: "Please, don't."

Not knowing whether to obey or not, Cersei shifted her weight from one foot to the other restlessly, trying to keep her feet warm on the cold stone. She swallowed hard, ashamed of being caught in such an inelegant state, on a level of a mere servant girl.

"I…" She struggled to find words. "I didn't…I wasn't expecting you."

The queen seated herself on the bottom of the bed and motioned for Cersei to join her.

"I would have come to visit you sooner, but I didn't want to disturb your rest." She said, placing the young prince on her lap, his face turned to Cersei.

Her movements much stiffer than the queen's, Cersei did as she was bid. The silver-haired woman smiled at her kindly, apparently not taking her appearance against her.

"How are you feeling?" She asked. To Cersei's ears, she didn't sound like she was asking because it was expected of her – she truly wanted to know the answer.

Her sympathy didn't make Cersei feel comfortable though, quite the contrary. The only other person who had ever looked at her with warmth in their eyes was Mother. And thinking of Mother was painful in so many ways there were moments when she wished she could forget all memories of her. It would be easier not to remember her than to have so many questions, so many doubts, so many fears.

"Better." She nodded, her answer belied by the cold feeling of death still clinging onto her skin. She could still hear Joanna's Lannister's emotionless voice, telling her she didn't miss her daughter, that she didn't hate her younger son for killing her.

No, Cersei didn't feel better; she doubted she would ever feel good again.

"I'm glad to hear it." The queen's voice snapped her out of her disheartening musings. She raised her head and saw the smile had vanished from the woman's face, replaced by piercing solemnity. "Now I only wish I could believe it."

Cersei forced her lips to shape a smile, but even if she'd succeeded, she was aware it was weak and unconvincing.

"Thank you for your concern, Your Grace." The cheerfulness of her voice couldn't sound more clearly faked if she was screeching. "But I am fine. Truly."

Queen Rhaella leaned forward, reaching out for her hand, but before she could grasp it, Prince Viserys wriggled in her arms and let out a cry. The queen withdrew at once and her attention shifted from Cersei to her son, leaving the former feeling… _abandoned_. _Angry_.

Why did the prince have to cry out now? Why did he have to steal the gentleness meant for her? Why was everyone else more important?

She placed her hands into her lap, away from the queen's reach, and stared at them, so she wouldn't glare daggers at the little prince. She didn't need the queen's comfort, she didn't _want_ it. The snivelling princeling could keep it all to himself. He was just a helpless babe, while she was a survivor of a siege. She was strong; she didn't need _anyone_.

"It's alright, Viserys." She heard Queen Rhaella say to the boy gently. "You don't have to be afraid of Lady Cersei."

Even against her will, she blinked in surprise and looked to the queen's eyes for an explanation. It didn't make any sense; why would the young prince be scared of her? Was there something wrong…

Tears blurred her sight as a thought came to mind; of course there was something wrong with her, everything was wrong with her. When there was no-one around, she had forgotten what she looked like now. She had forgotten how ugly she was, so ugly she scared children. How would Rhaegar love her like this when his younger brother couldn't stand the sight of her?

"He is nervous around unknown people." It took her a moment to realize the queen was speaking to her and another to realize that she was explaining that…the problem wasn't in Cersei.

Trying not to blink and allow the tears to fall, she made her eyes widen as much as possible. She would not cry. She was _strong_.

The queen placed a kiss on the prince's temple and ran her fingers through his silver hair, before she looked at her again, her expression almost apologetic. "The only people he doesn't cry around are the knights of the Kingsguard. He is used to them."

The statement sounded wrong to Cersei's ears, making her raise her eyebrows in bewilderment. "And you and Pri…the king?"

"He is shy with me, but not unreachable." The queen shrugged her shoulders. "As for his brother…" She sighed, as though she was in pain. "Rhaegar has been occupied with other matters. They haven't had the time to get to know each other yet."

Cersei opened her mouth and then closed it, confused. How hadn't they had the time? It had been more than a year since Prince Viserys' birth? Who was he supposed to be used to if not his own brother? Jaime had been there her whole life, just Rhaegar had been around since Viserys was born. She couldn't imagine being afraid of Jaime or upset by his presence. Then again, they were twins; their bond was special. Maybe Rhaegar regarded Viserys the way she regarded Tyrion? But why would he? Viserys was…well, _normal_. A child that didn't look like a monster and hadn't murdered his own mother to come into this world.

"You must find that hard to imagine." The queen spoke as if she had read Cersei's mind. "I remember you didn't separate from your brother when Joanna brought you to court. It was so sweet to see you holding onto each other as though nothing could harm you as long as you were together."

 _Because it's true._ Cersei wanted to say, but didn't. She didn't want to think of Jaime either – because it made her realize how terribly she missed him. _When we were together, nothing bad happened. And when I went away, I almost died. I want to see him. I want him to hold me._

"I wish my sons shared such a strong bond. But I don't know if it's possible. Rhaegar is so much older and he is also King." Queen Rhaella sounded sad, hopeless even.

Cersei felt no sympathy; in fact, she was offended by the notion. _It could never be as strong as ours. Jaime and I came into this world together._ The thought flowed naturally, without hesitation. _And we will leave it together._

But she voiced none of her indignation. Besides, the queen admitted it was doubtful her sons would ever become as close as the Lannister twins were. She couldn't truly understand their bond, but she admired it, viewed it as something to be aspired to. Cersei was proud to possess something other people, even royals, couldn't grasp, something they could desire and envy. It made her feel…almost godlike. Even Rhaegar…

But Rhaegar did have, if not a real twin brother, then something close in Ser Arthur Dayne. Their bond went against everything that had been carved into Cersei from a young age – trust no-one but family – yet, strangely so, she couldn't imagine the king without his shadow, as she'd come to regard the knight. Since the moment she had laid eyes on Rhaegar in Casterly Rock, Ser Arthur had been somewhere close by. She would have suffered his presence for Rhaegar's sake anyhow, but after months of acquaintance (even if it was based mostly on sword-fighting lessons), she would be lying if she claimed the knight's company was unpleasant. He had never made fun of her or mistreated her (not counting bruises she had earned at his hands during their lessons – those were unavoidable). He was always a perfect knight and she had come to… _trust_ him. Not completely, not blindly, but she did trust him with Rhaegar, to keep her pri––king safe and to advise him, at least until she took her place by Rhaegar's side.

"The king can rely on Ser Arthur until Prince Viserys is older." She pointed out and then smiled at the said prince reassuringly, willing him to feel more at ease around her. She needed to know he wasn't disgusted by her. "And I am sure the prince will find as close a friend of his own age one day."

The queen returned her smile joyfully; Cersei's words seemed to really have eased her worries. For some reason, the sight made Cersei feel warm inside, but she decided not to pay it too much attention and rather focused on Queen Rhaella's words.

"You are right." The queen said elatedly, hugging Prince Viserys closer. "Maybe because Rhaegar and Arthur never got into any kind of trouble as young men tend to I imagine this one will be quite a little troublemaker." She ruffled his silver hair affectionately and her eyes returned to Cersei's. "What are your friends in Casterly Rock up to, Lady Cersei? Do they miss you?"

In a heartbeat, all the light-heartedness was gone as if sucked out of the air. Cersei felt her breath catch in her throat; her heart began pounding so wildly her chest started to ache as well as her head.

 _Remember, Cersei._ Melara's words echoed inside her mind ominously. _The prophecy will come true._

She had never considered Melara Hetherspoon a friend, more a girl she could easily frighten into obedience. It had turned out she could – up to a point. The girl had harboured such a desperate crush on Jaime she had dared stand up to Cersei and threaten to talk about things she should have never even known. So many words had been exchanged and so many hits dealt and yet it was only a single slip, a stroke of luck, that had decided their fates.

 _Help me, please!_ Melara had sung a different tune as the water pulled her downwards, Cersei remembered _. I beg you, Cersei, please! I won't tell anyone about Maggy and about Jaime, I swear! I will never even look at him again! I promise! Please! You have to believe me!_

Cersei hadn't believed her.

She had learned her lesson then, sworn off friendships with jealous little snakes. Who was even worthy of being called her friend? She was prettier, richer, smarter, _better_ than any girl in the Realm. Lions didn't befriend lesser beings. Also, she had Jaime. Jaime was enough. She would also have Rhaegar soon. She didn't need anyone else.

"I don't have any friends in Casterly Rock." She said evenly. "I have my brother."

The queen's violet eyes widened in surprise.

"You don't have any friends?" She must have realized she sounded stupid just repeating Cersei's words, so she elaborated: "Female friends?"

"I don't need them." Cersei said firmly, perhaps too firmly, but she didn't care.

Queen Rhaella's questions only served to show her ignorance of the bond shared by twins. She didn't have a twin. She simply _couldn't_ understand. A twin was _everything_.

"I'm sorry to hear you think so." The queen said after a few moments of stunned silence.

Suddenly, she cast a glance at the door, even though Cersei didn't hear anything resembling the sound of steps approaching. Cersei was confused by the woman's behaviour, but didn't get the chance to ponder it. When the queen turned to look at her again, a sad smile was playing on her lips. "Your mother helped me through some of the most difficult periods of my life. I valued her friendship greatly."

The revelation took Cersei by surprise. She knew Mother had once been Queen Rhaella's lady-in-waiting, but nobody had ever cast any light on that part of Joanna's life. Until now, Cersei had believed it was simply considered a source of shame and therefore wasn't spoken of; Lannisters didn't take well to the role of servants, even more so since King Aerys had used that particular word to describe Father's role in the Realm. Joanna was supposed to be remembered only as a great Lady of the Rock, mother to a queen and grandmother to a king. To hear she was remembered as something other than that was…unsettling, but also captivating.

"I…" She suddenly realized she had been staring at the queen in bafflement for longer than it was proper, so she cast her eyes downwards. "I didn't know that." In her precious few memories of Mother, Joanna had never mentioned the queen. "She never spoke about it…as much as I remember, anyway."

"She saved my life." Queen Rhaella said softly, making Cersei raise her head again to look at her. "I probably wouldn't be here speaking to you today if it hadn't been for her."

Cersei drank the silver-haired woman in, begging her with her eyes to just _talk_. She had to learn more, desperately. How had Mother saved her life? What could she have done that Father or King Aerys couldn't? Why had no-one mentioned that to Cersei before?

( _Had Joanna really been King Aerys' lover? Had she betrayed Queen Rhaella's friendship and broken Father's trust?_ )

The queen's eyes darkened as the silence stretched and the tension in the air grew. Her gaze felt like an itch on Cersei's skin, but if she made even the most inconspicuous move to scratch it, it would break the spell and leave her empty-handed. Part of her ached to look away, leave the matter be, but she just _couldn't_. She had to know.

"I…It's not an easy subject to discuss." The queen broke the silence at last, her voice not quite even. "It would be for the best to wait until you are a little older."

"Please, Your Grace." If that tone came from someone else's mouth, Cersei would describe it as pathetic and beneath a Lannister. There and then, she couldn't control herself and words coloured in it burst out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I know so little of her. Please."

For a moment, it seemed the queen would deny her. However, the steel in her expression vanished as though it had never been there, as fickle as a trick of light. She sighed and pressed Prince Viserys closer to her chest as though her embrace would shield him from the words he was too young to even understand.

"After I gave birth to Rhaegar…" Her voice drifted off into silence and she swallowed a lump down her throat. Her eyes glazed over; Cersei wondered what she was seeing in her mind's eye. A babe very similar to the one she was holding closely in her arms as though he would slip through her fingers if she didn't hold on tightly enough? "I…I lost two children, before they were even born."

Suddenly, Cersei didn't know where to look. The pain of losing a child was unfamiliar to her, but she imagined it was not unlike losing a mother. Such losses left scars, opened wounds that never truly healed.

Perhaps she had made a mistake insisting she be told this story. Did she really want to hear it?

"Losing a child changes a woman." The queen continued before Cersei could change her mind. Cersei couldn't bring herself to look at her, could barely force herself to sit still and listen. "It weakens her, both in body and soul."

Losing one child? How weaker was a woman made by losing two?

"We were the last ones, Aerys and I." The way she said her late husband's name was the first sign of grief Queen Rhaella had displayed. It didn't exactly sound heartbroken as much as…lonely. "We needed heirs. A lot of them. We couldn't wait."

As the implications of the last words lingered in the air, Cersei barely breathed. There was a strange pressure inside her chest, something she had never truly felt before, so it took her a few moments to recognize it.

It was shame.

She should have not asked the queen to tell her this story. She still wanted to know about Mother's role in the queen's life, of course, but she should have asked someone – _anyone_ – else.

 _She has shared it with Mother._ She told herself, trying to keep her own fragile composure. _If Mother could hear it and bear it, then so can I. I must. I must know._

"But after I lost the second babe, I…" The queen stuttered, her voice breaking with every breath. Such a great amount of pain in so few words. It was so pure, so raw, one could cut oneself on it. "I needed to rest. I couldn't…I couldn't bear the thought of…of being with child again." _Of losing a child again._

The weight shifted on the bed beneath Cersei and suddenly a pale hand wrapped around her fingers. Startled, she raised her head and saw Queen Rhaella had moved closer to her, though she kept Prince Viserys on her other arm, away from Cersei. She squeezed Cersei's fingers, though the girl could not say who the gesture was meant to reassure.

"Your mother came to King's Landing to be by my side." Cersei felt she was drowning in the lilac pools that were the queen's eyes as much as in her story. She was so impatient to hear the next word that she barely grasped the meaning of the one that came before. "She was the only one who realized how close I was to death. The only one who cared whether I would survive another pregnancy."

The queen closed her eyes briefly, as if she was still feeling the death's breath on her face after so many years too. When she opened them again, Cersei saw her own reflection in the tears gathering in them. She had always considered tears that fell freely a sign of weakness, but tears that were held back, no matter how hard it was to do it…she held a bit of respect for them.

"Thanks to her, I was given time to recover." Queen Rhaella continued softly. "She saved my life. I only wish…" Her lips remained parted for a moment, the conflict obvious in her features. Then she said: "I wish she was still here."

Cersei couldn't find it in herself to speak out loud. _I wish she was here too._

In the absence of her answer, a dejected smile spread over the queen's face. "I like to think she watches over my other children." Her long fingers intertwined with Prince Viserys' small ones. "She keeps them safe in my stead, until I join them."

 _She doesn't._ The words were at the tip of Cersei's tongue, cold and cruel. _She doesn't care about you or your children. She doesn't care even about her own._

The words that came out of her mouth weren't the ones she had expected.

"I have always believed that…my mother hates my brother…for taking her away from us." Her voice was trembling as the words stumbled out of her mouth, her breaths coming out uneven.

The queen's stunned silence wrapped around her throat like a rope. Once again, she couldn't bring herself to look at the woman. Her gaze landed on Prince Viserys, who looked away as soon as their eyes met.

Unlike him, she didn't look away. He might fear her, but he couldn't judge her. "Do you think that's true, Your Grace?"

A heartbeat later, she was already regretting sharing her thoughts with Queen Rhaella. Why had she said that? The queen wouldn't understand, she would blame Cersei for something she shouldn't even be blamed for, she would… Why had she let those words escape her mouth? Why hadn't she reined them in?

( _Maybe because this conversation had already torn plenty of wounds, old and new ones, open. What damage could one more question really do?_ )

She waited for an answer with a baited breath.

Part of her knew it before the queen even spoke.

"I don't know what it's like to die so your child could live." The queen said softly, almost inaudibly. "But I know I would gladly have done so if it meant my children would have survived. They would have been protected and loved, even without me. It's all I would have wanted for them, for Rhaegar and Viserys and all the children I had in between them."

It was all Mother would have wanted for Tyrion. But Mother didn't care anymore.

"How…how many were there?"

She couldn't figure out for the life of her what had possessed her to ask that.

The queen didn't ask for an explanation or what she meant.

"I had three miscarriages." Her voice turned from uneven to completely lifeless. "Shaena and Baela were stillborn. Aegon and Jaehaerys died a few weeks after they were born. Daeron after half a year."

Cersei's breath hitched with each listed name. She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't think, only stare at the woman who had long since shed entire oceans of tears for her lost children.

 _Eight. Eight children. Eight dead children._

The queen's gaze flickered from her to the boy in her arms.

"My husband was determined to keep Viserys from suffering the same fate." Her knuckles had turned white around his tiny wrists, but he never whimpered or displayed any signs of being in pain. She was careful not to hurt him. "He didn't let anyone near him if he or the Kingsguard weren't present."

 _Not even me. Not even Rhaegar._

The silence that rested between them had a sense of finality to it. Cersei sat speechlessly and gazed into the queen's eyes, drinking in her sorrow, trying and failing to find a way to…lessen it. She felt so powerless, but for the first time, the feeling wasn't accompanied by a hot and sharp stab of anger, spent as easily as stirred. There was a deep ache in her very bones, a sense of slow and graduate decay from within.

 _Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds._

She nearly spilled that final secret there and then. It would be a relief not to have to bear that burden alone, to have someone who would have as much to lose if the events foretold by the witch came to pass as Cersei did. Together, she and the queen could be powerful enough to thwart the prophecy, even the part that spoke of Cersei's demise at the hands of the _valonqar_.

But she couldn't bring herself to share the secret. The queen might think her mad or laugh at her.

 _But I thought Rhaegar would do the same and he didn't. He wanted to know more._

And he would know more, she promised herself. She would tell him the whole prophecy, word for word just as Maggy had told it to her, as soon as he returned to King's Landing. They would decide together who was to be let in on it and what was to be done to prevent its outcome.

Queen Rhaella stood up slowly, her back bent tiredly as if she was carrying all her children, dead and alive, in her arms instead of just one.

"The king and your father should return to the capital soon." She said gently, but it didn't reach her eyes. They were still lifeless, like frozen pools. "I hope you will be well enough to greet them upon their arrival."

Cersei forced her body to move; manners had to be upheld, no matter the circumstances.

"I hope so too, Your Grace."

The queen nodded. "I wish you a good day."

"Thank you for coming to visit me, Your Grace." Cersei lowered her head and curtsied. And then, as the queen started to walk away, she said something she had never, ever said once over the course of her life, not even to Jaime. "I…I am sorry."

She had no idea where than had come from or even what she was sorry for. For the queen's loss? For the questions she had asked? For all the cruelties that had nearly escaped her mouth? Or all of it?

The silver-haired woman halted in her tracks abruptly, making Cersei raise her head again nervously. She wasn't used to having to watch her tongue, but today it seemed she was saying all the wrong things.

The first thing she saw was Prince Viserys watching her shyly, but he looked away as soon as their eyes met. When her gaze met the queen's, she could feel the violet eyes burning into hers, even from a distance.

"Goodbye, Lady Cersei." The queen nodded in greeting. Her face betrayed none of her thoughts.

A few moments later, Cersei was left standing alone in the room.

Only she was never truly alone, not anymore.

 _ **Who would have thought you actually had a heart in here somewhere, buried beneath all that vanity and vindictiveness. To tell you the truth, I am shocked.**_

It might have been just a cynical remark, but it made Cersei feel uneasy. She wasn't good at being nice and she didn't care; what would be the point? Grandfather hand been nice and people had despised him for it. Father was definitely not nice and yet people stayed at his side, knowing he made a better friend than an enemy. They respected him.

She knew Father would have shattered Queen Rhaella's illusions one by one. The queen would hate him and fear him for it. But would she respect him?

 _ **No.**_ _She wouldn't._

Her knees buckled beneath her and she collapsed onto the bed. Her head came to rest in her hands and she pressed her face against the bottom of her palms.

 _And what made you think I_ _ **wasn't**_ _capable of compassion?_ She asked Visenya sarcastically, rubbing her eyes to relieve the pressure behind her eyelids. Exhaustion washed over her and she let her body fall onto the bed, allowing her eyes to flutter shut.

 _ **You killed that servant-boy without blinking. Someone who'd had no blood on their hands would have hesitated.**_ Visenya explained evenly. _**Forgive me for thinking a girl of ten who had already taken at least two lives incapable of compassion.**_

 _I wouldn't have had to kill him if King Aerys hadn't insisted on bringing me to Duskendale._ Cersei snapped angrily. If Visenya was so quick to judge, then everyone else would be too and she couldn't have that. She wasn't to blame for the boy's death. _Or if Father and Queen Rhaella had managed to convince him to let me stay in King's Landing. Or if Rhaegar had reasoned with him. Or if Lord Darklyn hadn't been so foolish to start a rebellion._

 _ **So you are trying to say that the boy's death is everyone's fault but yours.**_

 _No, but…_ She _was_ saying that, wasn't she? But it was true. She hadn't _wanted_ to kill the boy, but she had had no choice. She had had to escape. _You told me to kill him._

 _ **No, I told you how to do it. You decided it had to be done on your own.**_

She wouldn't hesitate to call Visenya a liar – if she could remember her own exact words at the time.

 _But…_

 _ **No excuses.**_ The dragon queen interrupted her. _**You crashed his skull against the floor. His blood is on your hands. The only question is whether you can live with that.**_

Cersei snorted out loud. _Clearly, I_ _ **am**_ _living with it._

 _ **Can you take responsibility for his death? Can you admit to the world and to yourself that you did it? Can you face the consequences?**_

 _Consequences?_ The wording was a little too ominous in Cersei's opinion. _He was just a servant-boy._

 _ **One day, it won't be a gullible servant-boy standing in your way.**_ Visenya said firmly. _**Your enemies will not turn their backs to you. They will look you in the eyes and smile and plan your downfall at the same time.**_

That sounded unnervingly familiar.

"It won't come true." Cersei whispered to herself, as though the words could vanish into thin air, taking the outcome of Maggy's prophecy with them forever.

However, the echo of her thoughts was louder. _Queen you shall be…until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear._

With all the might lent by desperation of a scared child, she clenched her fists.

A hiss escaped her lips as nails pierced the skin of her palms, but at least it overcame the words in her mind. She exhaled heavily and forced herself to be utterly still. When she could no longer hold her breath, she breathed in and out deeply. Then again. And again. And again, until she no longer felt the pounding of her heart against her temples.

 _ **What was that?**_ Visenya demanded when she sensed she had Cersei's attention.

Cersei couldn't bring herself to try to explain the prophecy or who Maggy was. Let Visenya search her mind if she wanted to know about it. She just wanted _not_ to think of it.

 _Nothing._ She said curtly. _It doesn't matter._

( _Not yet, anyway._ )

She knew Visenya wouldn't be satisfied with that answer. She needed to divert her attention – quickly.

 _So how do I stop them?_ She asked, returning to the point they'd been discussing before her slip-up. It wasn't merely a distraction; she was genuinely interested in the answer. _How do I defeat them?_

The only answer she got was silence.

She nearly called out the dragon queen's name, both in her thoughts and out loud, but then changed her mind. She would not beg the insufferable woman to deign answer her. Let her keep her silence. She couldn't be trusted anyway.

 _The boy was in the way._ She told herself; if Visenya was listening, she didn't care – or maybe she did, a very, _very_ little. _If Melara had got the chance to talk, the Lannisters would have been disgraced. If I hadn't left her to die in that well, we could have lost everything._

She felt no regret, she promised herself.

 _I did what I had to do. I always will._

* * *

"Milord, a message."

Upon registering the words, Jaime snapped to attention immediately, like a lost traveller who finally recognized the path home after having wandered aimlessly for hours. His thoughts _had_ been roaming, from Cersei to Cersei, as they had constantly since he'd learned of her captivity in Duskendale. He hated himself for thinking of her when she didn't deserve it, not after having chosen the stupid prince (who was now King apparently) over him, but he couldn't help it. She had to be safe again before he could go back to trying to forget her.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head off the pillow, his focus settling on a piece of parchment that had just changed hands. Seated at the table, Uncle Kevan unravelled it and gestured to the messenger to leave them alone.

Jaime threw his legs over the edge and straightened up. He wanted to approach Uncle Kevan and see for himself what was written on the parchment, but he remained where he was. Uncle had already started to read; Jaime would have barely been able to keep up with him with a head start – he would stand no chance late from the beginning.

Kevan's face gave nothing away about who the message was from or whether it was good or bad news. Jaime felt like several lifetimes had passed until his uncle's green eyes finally locked with his.

"Cersei has been rescued." He said at last, his voice lacking even the slightest note of relief.

As quickly as Jaime's spirits rose, they were brought down even lower by Uncle's tone. What was wrong?

"Your father writes he sent her ahead to Grandmaester Pycelle with a party to protect her, as she has yet to regain consciousness." Kevan continued. "He stayed behind with the king to make sure the new lord of Duskendale would not follow in the footsteps of the previous one."

 _She has yet to regain consciousness._ Jaime's breath caught in his throat. He knew from stories told by his uncles that men who lost consciousness sometimes never woke up again. That could _not_ happen to Cersei. She must live. The bond between them, no matter how badly severed by her betrayal, would not allow her to die. It would keep her alive. It _had to_.

"He will send word when he returns to the capital if there is any news. Meanwhile, we are to return to Casterly Rock."

"No!" Jaime shouted so loudly Uncle Kevan flinched in surpise. His heart started pounding wildly, black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

He could not return to Casterly Rock without seeing Cersei awake with his own eyes. He wouldn't be able to bear waiting for news on the other side of the Realm.

"I must go to King's Landing." He insisted, his voice not as loud as before, but also not as calm as he would have liked it to be. _I must go to Cersei._

Uncle Kevan dropped the parchment onto the table absently and turned to fully face his nephew.

In Jaime's opinion, Kevan's green eyes had little in common with those of the other Lannisters he knew. They were filled with an emotion he couldn't recognize, probably because he'd never seen it on Father or any of his other brothers and cousins or Cersei. Whatever it was, it made him uncomfortable so he lowered his gaze and unintentionally gave Uncle Kevan a chance to speak.

"Jaime," His uncle said with a sigh, "There is nothing you can…"

"I must go to her." Jaime interrupted his uncle forcefully, the intensity of his tone driven by his anger with Kevan. Uncle didn't have a twin. He couldn't _possibly_ understand the strength of the connection between Jaime and Cersei. It surpassed the loyalty he felt to Father like the Wall towered above nameless villages in the North.

( _It was perhaps strong enough to wake his sister up._ )

Kevan sighed once more. When their eyes met again, Jaime could tell Uncle regretted his choice of words, but for Father's sake, he would say them.

"I know you worry for Cersei, but your world must not revolve around her."

It was just about the worst possible thing he could have said.

Jaime felt a pressure building up in his chest, as if he was literally drowning in the waves of fury. He had not meant to lose his temper, but soon he heard himself saying in the most spiteful tone he could muster: "Like your world doesn't revolve around Father, Uncle?"

Kevan's eyes narrowed at him, making Jaime grin inwardly in dark satisfaction. Uncle deserved that sting and Jaime would gladly send more his way until he agreed to let him go to the capital.

"You are too scared of Father to do anything without his permission!" He yelled, his hands clenching into fists. "Well, I am not! I am going to King's Landing to see Cersei alone if you are too much of a coward to go with me!"

"Careful, boy." The older Lannister said warningly. "I will not tolerate your insolence."

Jaime refused to look away. He wouldn't be intimidated into leaving for Casterly Rock. He would face Father's wrath without fear. Nothing would stop him from getting to Cersei.

"She is my sister." He said firmly, not separating his eyes from Uncle Kevan's for a moment, trying to conduct a message words couldn't describe. "My _twin_." _My other half._

It was only when Uncle's expression softened that he realized how desperate and scared he'd just sounded. He _was_ terrified. The thought of losing Cersei, of having to move on in this world without her, without knowing she was somewhere out there…it was unbearable. He could not let it happen. He had to go see her and stand by her side every day until she woke up.

( _And after she woke up too. The prince had failed at keeping her safe. Surely she would see now she could rely only on her twin to protect her and no-one else._ )

"I didn't mean to slander the love and devotion you and Cersei share." Uncle placed a comforting hand on Jaime's shoulder; he didn't try to shrug it off. "There are no siblings I know as close as the two of you and I admire your loyalty to one another."

Since the moment he'd found Cersei's drawing of her and the dragon prince, Jaime had doubted their loyalties were equal in strength. She'd been planning to leave him even before Rhaegar had asked for her. She had intended to replace him with the thieving prince.

Maybe he wasn't so desperate to reach her just because he was worried about her. Maybe he wanted to ask her to come back with him to Casterly Rock and see if she would agree. Everyone made mistakes (even his twin, even though she would never admit it); he was willing to give her another chance. If she came back, he would forgive and forget everything. Everything would be as it had been before.

But Cersei had to choose _him_. She had to choose _them_. Over the prince (the king), over the crown, over everything – like he would always choose her.

"But sometimes, we must put our duty before the ones we care for the most." Kevan's voice snapped him out of his musings.

 _Duty, duty, duty._ It was all Father ever talked about. Duty to the family.

"But if Father or Aunt Genna lay dying somewhere, you would go to them." Jaime objected, but even to his own ears it sounded more like pleading.

If Uncle Kevan had hesitated with his answer, it had lasted only for a moment.

"They would want me to do my duty to the family." He said with absolute certainty in his voice.

Jaime frowned in confusion. "But they _are_ family."

This time, Uncle's pause was longer as he tried to come up with an explanation.

"They are part of it, yes." He conceded. "But the Lannister name will carry on even when they are gone, when you and I are gone." He removed the hand from Jaime's shoulder, but kept looking solemnly at his nephew. "Our duty to the family is to ensure it can still thrive even after we die. Your father devoted his life to that and look how high our House has risen. He expects us to keep it as strong even when he is gone."

Jaime bit his lip nervously, feeling the pressure of everyone's expectations settling down on his shoulders even before Uncle Kevan finished speaking. Father was _Father_ ; how could he ever measure up? He struggled with _reading_ ; even Tyrion – _Tyrion!_ – was better at it than him. How could he keep House Lannister as strong as it was with Father as its lord? He wasn't, he didn't, he couldn't…

"If everything goes as planned," While Jaime had been struggling to keep his composure, Uncle Kevan had seated himself at the table again, "Cersei will become Queen and give birth to royal heirs. You will marry a respectable lady who will give your children who will inherit Casterly Rock and all the power of House Lannister. Tyrion will also be found a suitable wife and he will also do his duty to the family."

In his mind's eye, Jaime saw Cersei smiling at a silver-haired, green-eyed babe in her arms. He saw himself standing next to a woman whose face was hidden in the shadows on the day of his wedding. He saw Tyrion – four-year-old Tyrion – watching his betrothed with curious eyes and her laughing at him for being a dwarf.

He couldn't stand the thought of that being their future. Cersei away with somebody who couldn't be trusted to keep her safe, Tyrion mocked without anyone to protect him and he stuck in a marriage to a woman whose face wasn't the reflection of his.

It was even more imperative that he reached Cersei now. He had to tell her what would become of them if they gave in to Father's plans. He had to make understand they couldn't live like that. _He_ couldn't live like that.

"Let me go to her, please." He asked – no, _begged_. "I just need to see her. I…I will do anything."

 _I will go back home with you – and with Cersei. If she doesn't want to come, then…_ Then he had no idea what would happen.

Uncle observed him thoughtfully for a few moments, then his gaze sharpened and Jaime could sense the danger that blade presented.

"I want your word." Kevan said solemnly, his voice cutting through the air in the same manner Father's did.

Jaime's resolution began to crumble in a stunned silence.

"You will try harder to master _all_ the skills a lord needs." Uncle Kevan continued in the same tone. "When your father finds you a suitable bride, you will wed her without complaints. And when the time comes, you will take your rightful place as Tywin's heir."

Jaime's lungs began to burn with the lack of air. He tried to breathe in, but he couldn't, choking on the words he didn't want to say.

He didn't want to make that promise. He wanted none of it. He wanted a sword in his hand and Cersei at his side.

( _Somewhere far, far away from all those who knew them and all their expectations. Perhaps they could bring Tyrion along too. Cersei would take some convincing, but Jaime was sure it could be done. They would be happy on their own, the three of them. They would be_ _ **free**_ _._ )

If he made this promise, he would never be free again.

But there was no other way to Cersei.

He cast his eyes down and breathed in deeply. "You have my word."

The deafening silence luckily lasted only for a heartbeat.

"Look at me, Jaime."

Jaime hesitated. He didn't know if he could look Kevan in the eyes and lie to him. If he was caught, he might never see Cersei again and the grim future he had envisioned for them would come true.

 _Cersei. For Cersei. For us._ He repeated her name like a prayer and his courage slowly began to return. He and Cersei had been deceiving everyone for years. They were good liars. _He_ was a good liar. He could do this.

He raised his head and looked Uncle straight in the eyes. "You have my word." He repeated firmly.

After a few moments of silence, Uncle Kevan nodded.

"I must go tell Tygett about the change of plans." He stood up and headed outside, leaving Jaime behind with a strange sense of…chaos in his gut.

He was going to see Cersei. But would she want to see him? What would he do if she didn't? Would he stay by his promise to Uncle Kevan…or would he break it? Would he have a reason to break if Cersei turned him away? If she wouldn't allow him to save her from her own choices, would he be a bad brother if he decided to leave her behind?

* * *

It took Tywin only a brief glance at the group standing in the yard inside the Red Keep to notice his daughter wasn't present.

The queen and Prince Viserys were present, as well as the rest of the Kingsguard. All the lords who were currently residing at court, including members of the Small Council, stood a little in the back, but they would still be in the king's sight once he reached his family. Even some servants had come to witness Rhaegar's triumphant return from his first (successfully crushed) rebellion.

Pycelle wasn't present either.

That was concerning. Tywin had received word that his daughter had woken up and that she seemed to be in good health, if a bit shaken by what had happened in Duskendale. Why wasn't she there to greet the king's party then? Had she fallen ill?

He sighed inwardly; how many more obstacles would he have to put up with until she was finally betrothed to Rhaegar?

Said young man was had just dismounted, his crimson cloak rising into the air in a welcoming gust of wind in a warm late morning. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he placed a hand on Queen Rhaella's shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. After greeting his mother, he smiled fondly at his younger brother.

Prince Viserys didn't seem keen on reciprocating his affection. He turned away from the king and buried his face in the crook of the queen's neck. Not even the queen's soft whispers managed to convince him to look at his brother again. Aerys' paranoia had affected the boy quite badly, but it was for the best that he remained so wary of the world. Cersei's children wouldn't have to fear overly ambitions cousins.

"How was your journey?" The queen asked gently, trying to distract the king from his younger brother's aversion to him.

Which shouldn't have been necessary at all in Tywin's opinion. Rhaegar should have more important things on his mind than his younger brother's fearful behaviour. However, the Hand was forced to direct his disapproval at someone other than the king, so he climbed off his horse and summoned a stable-boy with an impatient wave of hand. He threw the reins at the boy; at the same moment, Rhaegar spoke again.

"It was short, thank the gods." He tried to sound at ease, but there was a clear edge to his tone. "A lot shorter than I feared it would be when we set out for Duskendale."

Tywin turned on his heel and saw the queen squeezing her son's hand gently in attempt to dismantle the tension in his posture. "Not short enough." She said with a heartfelt smile. "When you have children of your own, you will understand."

Rhaegar stiffened briefly at her words, but relaxed again as his gaze slid to the red-haired man standing behind the queen.

"Jon." He acknowledged Lord of Griffin's Roost , who returned his greeting with a bow and a mumbled 'Your Grace'.

While ordering the servant-boy that his horse was to have his hooves trimmed at once, Tywin listened to the exchange with interest. Jon Connington had been tasked directly by Rhaegar to accompany Cersei to King's Landing. Rhaegar might finally ask about her. He could finally show the same determination to have her by his side that he had displayed that night in Casterly Rock when he had insisted Cersei was brought to King's Landing. With Aerys gone, nothing stood between her and a royal match anymore. She would be Queen.

But Rhaegar's gaze returned to Queen Rhaella without even a mention of Cersei. Tywin narrowed his eyes at the young king, but he couldn't call him out on his… _mistake_ in front of the entire court.

"I want you to join me for a meal in an hour." Rhaegar glanced at Viserys so briefly his eyes returned to the queen's before the boy could even look away again. "Both of you."

"Of course." The queen accepted with a joyful beam. She looked happier than Tywin had ever seen her during her marriage to Aerys.

The king's smile was a weak reflection of hers, but a smile nonetheless. He nodded and made as if to walk away, but then paused and turned to face the Hand, the smile gone from his face long before he locked eyes with Tywin.

 _Finally._

"I want the Small Council gathered at sundown." Rhaegar said, his tone lacking every trace of light-heartedness that had been present as he'd conversed with the queen. "Until then, I must not be disturbed."

Tywin bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace."

After many years of practice, he was able to recognize the moment when he could raise his head without appearing disrespectful,so he could speak before the king's attention wandered off. "If Your Grace would excuse me, I wish to see my daughter. I'm sure she would have been here to welcome us if she was well enough."

For a moment, Rhaegar seemed to have frozen completely, panic sparking in his violet eyes, but whatever inspired it, he recovered from it soon. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"I hope she will recover soon." Despite his calm appearance, his voice wasn't quite even. "Give her my regards."

Tywin bowed once again; the gesture served well to hide his displeasure. He'd hoped Rhaegar would insist on visiting Cersei himself. Had his inclinations towards her weakened? Had the foolish girl done something to offend him? Or did he think her time in Duskendale had made unsuitable for the role of Queen?

He needed to speak to Cersei as soon as possible, find out what had happened since she'd entered the walls of the Dun Fort.

And compare her story with Lady Serala's, to see if the latter had left something out.

"Take Lady Serala to the Tower of the Hand." He commanded one of his men. "Make sure one of the maids explains her new duties to her."

He didn't stay behind to observe Lady Serala's reaction to his words, but marched away towards the Grandmaester's chambers. Two of his men followed him through the stony corridors, but kept their distance. They passed by a few servants, ignoring their bows and mumbled ' _milord_ 's'. When they finally reached Pycelle's chambers, Tywin walked inside without knocking and found himself in a room empty of people. It contained a wooden desk, a chair, a closet, a few cabinets on which stood various instruments whose purpose was mostly unknown to Tywin and numerous shelves. Some were filled with bottles and vials of various sizes and contents while others were covered with thick and thicker books. There were also two doors, leading to the rooms left and right of this one.

A few moments later, the door to the right opened, revealing the unappealing sight of Grandmaester Pycelle.

"Who dares…" The man began sharply, but then realized who his unexpected guest was and bowed his head meekly. "My Lord Hand."

"Where is my daughter?" Tywin asked without greeting. He was tired of pleasantries and didn't feel the need to extend them to those beneath him.

Fortunately, Pycelle was too scared of him to be offended.

"In here." He moved further into the room to let the Hand past.

"Leave us." Tywin commanded in passing, loudly enough for his men to realize the order referred to them as well. It was only after he heard the door snapping shut that he finally focused his attention on his daughter.

"Father."

Dry and dressed in a golden dress, but pale and nearly bald (and still too young to have any sign of breasts worth mentioning), Cersei looked cleaner than she had the last time he'd seen her, but also like a boy of noble birth who had for unfathomable reasons decided to wear a gown. Tywin would bet (if he ever bet, which he never did) that Jaime looked more feminine right now than his sister. The sight was quite disconcerting, in all honesty; perhaps it was a good thing she hadn't been present in the yard to greet the king upon his arrival.

Still, he needed to know the reason for her absence. She clearly wasn't bedridden with fever.

"The whole court was in the yard to welcome the king." He said sternly. "Why weren't _you_?"

She cast her eyes down and hugged herself as though she was cold. "I…I didn't feel well." She said after a few moments of silence.

He nearly scoffed at that. King's Landing was bathed in sunlight which mercilessly burned everything it touched. He wished for a storm like the one that had washed over Duskendale the night of the attack to make the capital breathe again. Had Cersei tried to fake just about any other symptom, he might have believed it, but cold was the last thing one could feel in these conditions.

"I see you are standing." He replied dismissively. "Why couldn't you have stood in the yard?"

She hugged herself even tighter, as if that could shield her from his discontentment. Eventually, she looked at him through her eyelashes. "Was the pri––the king angry?"

Anger would have been a preferable reaction to Rhaegar's actual response – it seemed he hadn't even remembered Cersei was supposed to be there. "If he was, he kept it well hidden," Tywin said, the slightest note of irritation sneaking into his voice. "Have you done something to offend him?"

"No!" She denied fiercely, as if insulted by the notion. "I would never do anything to offend him."

That didn't tell Tywin much; just because Cersei believed she hadn't offended Rhaegar in any way didn't mean the king felt the same. On the other hand, if that was the case, he would surely have brought the matter up by now.

For now, the best course of action would be to wait until the Small Council meeting; he would learn there whether anything Cersei had or hadn't done was among the subjects the king wanted to discuss. Tywin would have preferred to settle the matter with Rhaegar in private beforehand, but the king had instructed he was not to be disturbed until sundown and not even Tywin could present this issue as a matter of life and death.

This particular subject would have to wait, but there were others that didn't have to.

"What happened in Duskendale?" He asked his daughter.

Her eyes narrowed briefly, suspicious of him dropping a matter so easily. His brow furrowed as his patience wore thin; it was enough warning for her not to waste his time any longer.

He didn't interrupt her while she spoke, concentrated on catching specifics he could use to assess Lady Serala's honesty later. Cersei's version of the story was quite meticulous, as though she believed he would be impressed by her ability to memorize details. He was more impressed by her method of ensuring the alarm wasn't raised after she'd left the cell, but kept the fact to himself. She repeated every word Denys Darklyn had said to her particularly keenly; she clearly hadn't been told the man wasn't around anymore to be punished – regret Tywin shared.

As for Denys' widow, her fate still hung in the air.

"Lady Serala told me you'd insisted she became one of your maids." He said when she finished, not allowing her more than a few heartbeats to catch her breath. "Why?"

Cersei's eyes widened in surprise, her mouth falling open. "She is here?"

"For the time being." He replied, the implication clear in his tone.

Her lips quirked at the corners, the surprise transforming into satisfaction.

"She is a smart woman." Her even tone did little to mask the excitement in her eyes. "I want smart people around me."

If Tywin hadn't heard those words with his own ears, he wouldn't believe his daughter was capable of saying something so… _clever_. Was this the same girl who had written that letter full of begging and snivelling?

"Smart people are dangerous if left unchecked." He said coldly, careful not to let his voice give away his astonishment. "Can you keep her under control?"

A scowl creased her forehead. Her hesitation was obvious, but Tywin took it as a sign of her growing shrewdness. It wasn't a responsibility to be taken lightly. Members of one's household were the greatest weakness a nobleman had. They were always around, always close. It was essential they knew their place and their loyalties, otherwise they only posed a liability.

"I think I can." She said at last. "I will."

He resented the uncertainty in her voice, but better that she underestimated herself than the (supposed) enemy.

"We will see, won't we?"

Her gaze sharpened, but she didn't say anything, at least not out loud. _Yes, we will._

For the first time in years, Tywin felt he might have found entertainment he would actually enjoy.

"If the Grandmaester gives his approval, you will return to the Tower of the Hand at once." He ordered, moving along to other matters. "You will not leave your chambers until I say so."

He nearly rolled his eyes when he saw she was pouting. And he'd really believed for a moment she had outgrown those immature tantrums.

"Why not?" She squealed in protest.

His frustration with her childish whining took control only for a moment, but it was enough for him to snap at her and answer with cruel honesty. "Because I don't want you in the king's sight." _Looking like_ _ **this**_ _._

She flinched away as though he'd slapped her.

Looking at tears welling in her eyes, the understanding clear in them, he felt his words had stung more severely than a slap ever could.

"Not until I explain to him that all your begging and whining in that letter was pretence." He said quickly in a strange moment of… _pity_? "He will understand you did what you had to do."

One by one, tears started to fall down her cheeks. Their descent was slowed down by her raising her head and sticking her chin out defiantly as she _glared_ at him.

"I thought you would have explained that to him already." Her voice was uncannily steady for someone who was crying. "I thought my own father knew me well enough to understand I wouldn't have humiliated myself and my House by writing that without a good reason."

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. A moment later, she was glaring at him again, bold and unyielding. When she spoke, her voice held no uncertainty. "I was wrong."

Without further ado, she curtsied and marched out of the room, not caring that she had not been allowed to leave, never once turning back.

Tywin stared after her in shock, unable to move or call after her. His mind struggled to understand how he had been reduced to a speechless statue by his own daughter, a girl of one-and-ten. If anyone had witnessed this, he would become a laughing stock…

It was only the fear that they'd been overheard that made him move. Pycelle and one of the guards stood in the corridor; the other guard must have followed Cersei. They didn't look shocked, only bowed their heads when he entered the main room. _Good._ He walked past them without a word, not stopping to wait for the guard to catch up.

He barely watched where he was going as he approached the Tower of the Hand, his mind occupied with trying to think of a suitable punishment for Cersei's insolence. To his frustration, he caught himself doubting whether any form of punishment he had come up with would have any effect. The sight of her face came back to him over and over again, tearstained, but unwavering, accusing him of a crime he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't committed.

He banned the thought as soon as it appeared in his mind. He had devoted all his efforts to raising the House Lannister in the eyes of Westeros. If he hadn't taken the reins over from his father long before Tytos had even died, she would never have been regarded as a possible bride for Rhaegar. She was an ungrateful, spoiled child. The only regret he had regarding her was allowing Joanna and Genna free reign with her. If she'd been taught discipline in time, she wouldn't have dared defy him like that.

He reached his chambers with one thought on his mind; Cersei's newfound boldness had to be restrained. A little cheek in a wife could be entertaining occasionally; a lot was intolerable. He wouldn't allow Cersei's imprudence to cost her her marriage to Rhaegar. He wouldn't allow it to cost him an heir of Lannister blood on the Iron throne.

But there was a more imminent obstacle on that path. Luckily, it could be moved out of the way with just one letter.

 _Ashara Dayne._

* * *

She wasn't there when he arrived.

Just six men bowing to him as he took his place at the head of the table and a few servants waiting to be summoned. None of them was the golden-haired girl he longed to see. He tried to convince himself it didn't matter, but he could feel his spirits sinking in disappointment.

The only time when he hadn't been thinking about her since returning to the capital was during the meal with Mother and Viserys. His brother had remained reserved towards him, but had smiled at Mother a couple of times, which had never failed to make the queen's eyes light up like candles. Watching her ruffling his hair, kissing his forehead, showering him with her love had made Rhaegar realize how much she had suffered while being parted from him, how much she needed Viserys to know she loved him. Even if it seemed she barely grieved for Father, Rhaegar remembered so few smiles on her face prior to Aerys' death (and even less of those that hadn't turned into tears later) that he couldn't hold her current happiness against her. Her joy didn't come from losing a husband, but from regaining a son.

 _She said I would have three children. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds._

A powerless sigh escaped his lips. Everywhere he went, whatever brief moments of peace he found, he was always haunted by Cersei Lannister's presence, her words, her face.

He'd been sure Lord Tywin would bring her with him to the Small Council meeting, if only to dangle her in front of him like he'd done when they'd arrived to the Red Keep. He couldn't fathom the reason for her absence. It weighed heavily upon him, as heavily as he imagined her presence would have. Was she so unwell she couldn't stand? But Grandmaester Pycelle was sitting at the table; surely he wouldn't have left her side if she was gravely ill.

So where was she?

Tywin Lannister cleared his throat, snapping Rhaegar out of the musings about his daughter. Afraid he'd been caught daydreaming, he chanced a glance at the men at the table, looking for the slightest sign of disapproval in their expressions.

To his surprise, they were all looking at him with interest, waiting patiently for their king to speak. Or more likely assessing him, wondering how much authority would a young, inexperienced ruler dare impose upon men decades older than him. They probably assumed he would be easy to control.

He had to prove them wrong, quickly.

"My lords." He greeted them with a nod, briefly locking eyes with each of them. "You have all served my father well." His gaze paused on Lord Tywin, but didn't remain there long enough for the clash to be suspicious. "But I need you to serve me even more faithfully. I need your knowledge and your experience to help me keep this Realm prosperous and safe."

It had taken all of his self-control not to emphasise the last word. He believed he'd managed.

Some of the men nodded, others hummed in agreement. Rhaegar allowed himself a moment of contentment, then continued.

"My father's ill-fated journey to Duskendale didn't just cost him his life, but also life of one of the Kingsguard." He nodded at the Lord Commander, who bowed his head as if to say that Gwayne Gaunt had died honourably, doing his duty. Rhaegar hoped dearly Arthur (or any of the other Kingsguard) would never have to pay the same price for upholding their vows. "A tournament to find Ser Gwayne a worthy replacement will be hosted in King's Landing in a few weeks. Word must be spread."

Another wave of nods and favourable mutters spread through the room. They didn't have any complaints so far.

Rhaegar breathed in deeply, knowing the hardest part was before him. They would probably object to everything; the time and resources it would take to organize such an event, the necessity of _another_ coronation, the list of those invited.

He could still change his mind. He could just not mention it and none would be the wiser.

He could simply wed Cersei Lannister when she came of age and hope he had misinterpreted the visions (or not care about them at all).

But he'd spent most of his life researching prophecies, trying to understand what they meant, the warnings in them; it was as much a part of him as an arm or a leg. He couldn't choose not to believe in them or what he thought they meant; he just _believed_. He believed the monster of ice would be reborn from Cersei Lannister's blood if he married her – why else would the vision have come to him only after Father's death? She was not of fire herself. Her blood wasn't hot enough to burn it.

He could not wed her. He could not choose her over the fate of men in Westeros.

"Lords of all great Houses will be invited to the tournament." He said firmly, trying to appear calm, despite the storm within. "As well as lords of Houses with historical ties to Westeros and my family, like Velaryon, "He nodded at Lucerys Velaryon, Master of ships and the head of House Velaryon, to let him know that the ancient ties between Houses Targaryen and Velaryon that dated back even prior Aegon the Conqueror's time hadn't been forgotten, "Hightower," His eyes locked briefly with Ser Gerold Hightower's brown ones, even though the man had long since sworn his loyalty to the ruler of Westeros and not to his own family, "And Dayne. They must come to swear loyalty to me as their new king."

The two men whose families were mentioned by name nodded in agreement. Pycelle lowered his head, hiding his face from Rhaegar's sight. Tywin Lannister had no need for such unsubtle methods of concealing his thoughts; his stern expression was unreadable

"Your Grace." Lord Quarlton Chelsted, Master of coin, was the first to protest, as it was to be expected.

Rhaegar turned to him, hoping he was displaying an air of willingness to hear his opinion, but also determination to have his way. It was essential that this plan worked; he would have no other chance to get to know other possible brides at least a little before marriage. He'd always known he wouldn't wed for love, but he would like to have at least one thing in common with his future wife.

( _Part of him hoped for it to be interest in prophecies and visions, but he doubted he was that lucky._ )

"Hosting a tournament is expensive as it is, but to summon all those lords? With all their knights and servants?" Lord Quarlton's frown deepened. "It would cost us a fortune."

Despite feeling Tywin Lannister's piercing gaze on his face, Rhaegar didn't separate his eyes from the Master of coin for a moment.

"Can the royal treasury bear it?" He asked calmly.

Lord Quarlton blinked in surprise, but didn't speak, not even after he'd clearly recovered from it. It was enough of an answer for the king.

"I want it done." He commanded. The Master of coin opened his mouth to protest, but Rhaegar silenced him by raising his hand. "The reward for the tournament's victor is a place among my Kingsguard. You have some extra gold to spend that would have been reserved for that purpose already."

For a few moments, the Master of coin stared at him with his mouth hanging open. Eventually, he closed it and nodded. Rhaegar raised his eyebrows at the rest of the Small Council, giving them a chance to voice any other protests. None came, not even from the Hand, though Rhaegar had a feeling Lord Tywin simply didn't want to discuss his objections in front of the rest of the Council. He would surely ask for a word in private later.

The only way to delay that moment, at least for a time, was to keep him busy.

"Keep me informed about the progress." The king's gaze clashed with the Hand's; it took a lot of effort, but he held his ground. "The sooner the new Kingsguard is chosen, the sooner we can move on to other matters."

That provoked a reaction. Lord Lannister nodded.

Somewhat relieved, Rhaegar exhaled and rose from his seat, followed quickly by the six men. He left the room without looking at any of them, not wanting to let them drag him into another discussion today, not after the successful beginning. Other mattes could wait, at least until tomorrow.

All he wanted now was to soothe his thoughts. To let his mind wander as his fingers wandered through the strings of the harp. To enjoy the silence that came with music. _To forget._

 **A note: According to ASOIAF wiki, Rhaella had two stillborn children, Shaena and one whose name and sex weren't known. I find it hard to believe Rhaella (and Aerys) would have named (and loved) one stillborn child, but not another, so in this story the other child was a girl named Baela, named after one of the daughters of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon (because Daemon is one of my all-time favourites, even though he's probably one of the biggest douches in the whole AWOIAF/ASOIAF world).  
**

 **I hope you liked the chapter and sorry for the wait.**


	15. XV

**Sorry for the lack of updates these last two months. I've struggled a lot with this chapter, but it's finally done. I hope you'll like it.**

 **Thank you for all the reviews, faves and follows, especially to guest reviewers whom I can only answer this way. Your support means a lot to me.**

 **Hopefully there are none, but if there are any, I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistake and any OOCness, as there are many new (old) characters who make their apperance. I hope I've got them right; if you think I haven't, don't hesitate to tell me.**

"Milady, your father wants to speak to you."

The servant never once looked at the younger Tully girl. He had eyes only for Lord Hoster's eldest daughter.

Confused but curious, Catelyn stood up and put down her needlework on her seat with care not to accidentally rip it. When her hands were free, she grabbed the skirts of her blue dress and lifted them slightly so she wouldn't accidentally step on the edges lined with silver. She then headed after the servant, leaving her sister and the Septa alone to their own embroidery, though not without glancing at Lysa briefly one last time over her shoulder.

She wished her sister could come with her, but she knew that if Father wanted her there, he would have demanded her presence as well. He hadn't, and Catelyn didn't question her father's judgement. Besides, whatever he wanted to talk to her about, she would tell it all to Lysa later anyway. There were no secrets between the Tully sisters.

As she followed the servant through the corridors of Riverrun, her mind wandered, pondering all the possible reasons why Father could be summoning her. With her two-and-tenth nameday only days away, perhaps he wanted to talk to her about the celebrations or a last-minute gift. Or perhaps, she thought with a mix of nervousness and excitement, he had arranged an advantageous marriage for her and wanted to tell her who was to one day be her husband.

If that was the case, she hoped it was someone handsome and kind. Someone who would make her heart beat faster every time she laid eyes on him, who would dance with her, laugh with her. Someone who would make her happy.

"Milord." The servant's voice reached her ears just in time for her to avoid bumping into the man's back.

She breathed in deeply, shaking the daydream off like a snake changed its skin. This could not keep happening, she scolded herself. Her mind could not be allowed to roam so freely that she lost track of her surroundings. A lady must never been caught absentminded.

"Cat." Father greeted her with a smile, beckoning her to join him. He had clearly not noticed her brief lack of attention, for which she was relieved.

She passed the servant by and entered Father's study, a familiar room dominated by a large desk at which Hoster Tully was seated, elbows leaned on the wood, his fingertips glued together in front of his face. A piece of parchment was lying on between his elbows, clearly distinguishable against the dark, nearly black wood, like a treasure lying in shadows of a cave. The study was brightly illuminated by the morning light coming through the large window on the left side of the room. Blinded by the golden sunrays, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust and for her to recognize the dark silhouette of a man standing there with his arms locked behind his back. Uncle Brynden smiled affectionately at her and she returned it with all her heart. Whatever Father wanted to speak to her about, Uncle would be there to support and encourage her, of that she could be certain.

"We have just received news from King's Landing."

Father's voice drew her attention, making her eyes flicker to him. Her brow furrowed slightly, not so plainly it would be unbecoming, but still indicating her confusion. What did news from the capital have to do with her?

Lord Hoster's leaned backwards into the chair, his hands falling palms down with a thump. His fingers clicked against the desk, the sound muffled by the parchment between the skin and wood. Catelyn glanced at the note, curious about what it said, but she couldn't make out the words from where she was standing, so her eyes returned to Father's face.

"The king will host a tournament." He said, raising his eyes from the note to hers. "The victor will have the honour of joining his Kingsguard."

She assumed it would be quite an event, especially considering what the competitors would be fighting for. She had heard many tales of men who wore the white cloaks, of their skills, their bravery, their loyalty. She sent a quick prayer to the Seven that they grant their favour and give strength to whoever won the tournament, so he might serve the king faithfully.

Nonetheless, she was still at a loss as to why Father had summoned her to tell her this. It wasn't like she would be competing for this particular honour, was it?

"He had summoned lords of all great Houses to the capital to watch the tournament and to swear their loyalty to him." A satisfied smile spread over Father's face.

He stood up and walked over to her, his smile widening slightly with each step. By the time he took her hand into his and squeezed it gently, it had turned into a broad grin.

"And you, my dear Cat, will join me on that journey." His blue eyes were sparking with genuine, contagious delight. "I considered you marrying North, but perhaps I have been looking in the wrong direction, hm?"

 _North?_ She doubted Father had intended for her to marry into a lesser House. _He wanted me to wed Brandon Stark?_

She had never laid eyes on the heir to Winterfell, but rumours of Brandon Stark hadn't been hindered even by the waters of the Trident. On one hand, he was supposedly quite handsome and a skilful swordsman. Even if he wasn't any of those things, he was the eldest son of Lord of Winterfell, the future Warden of the North – what lady would refuse him? On the other hand, it was said he'd taken Lady Barbrey Ryswell's maidenhead, without bothering to at least be subtle about it. Though, Cat mused, the blame couldn't be laid solely on his feet; no rumour she had heard claimed that Lady Ryswell wasn't receptive to his attentions. She had given herself over to a man she wasn't betrothed or married to; her actions hardly inspired sympathy.

"It seems I have left you speechless." Father's amused chuckle snapped her out of her thoughts. He let go of her hand and returned to his seat. "My little Cat as Queen." He sighed contently. "What wouldn't I give to see it happen."

He might see the sight clearly in his mind's eye, but Catelyn was still too stunned to imagine it. Her heart was thundering inside her chest and gooseflesh was spreading all over her skin. She as Queen? Could it really happen? What if it _did_ happen?

Though she was suddenly aware of steps approaching her, it wasn't until she blinked that she realized it was Uncle Brynden, not Father, standing in front of her.

"I'm sure you would make a wonderful Queen, Cat." He said with a reassuring smile, but it quickly turned into a solemn frown as he turned to look at Father. "But, as your father refuses to do it, I feel it's my duty to warn you not to get your hopes up too high."

Father scoffed at Uncle's words and waved his hand dismissively.

"If the king wanted to wed the Lannister girl, Tywin Lannister would already have gone from door to door himself to announce the betrothal." He said, gesturing at the note in front of him. "No word of it here."

Uncle Brynden may have had an answer to that (because he always had one), but Father spoke again before he could.

"Queen Rhaella won't bear any more children." He said matter-of-factly. "The king has no choice but to choose a bride from one of the great Houses. Why couldn't it be our Cat?"

"And why couldn't it be any other girl from a great House?" Uncle Brynden replied firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Stark has a daughter, Martell too. Arryn might not have daughters, but he has nieces."

Catelyn hadn't realized until that moment that she would not only have to get the king to like her if she wanted to be Queen, she would have to get him to like her _the most_. She knew little about Brandon Stark's younger sister except that she was not really ladylike, and nothing about Lady Martell or Lord Arryn's nieces. Were they pretty? Could she even compare with them?

"Do you doubt Cat's beauty or her wit?" Father's cold voice brought her back to the present moment.

Before the question could even sting, Uncle Brynden's eyes met hers and all her concerns about his opinion of her vanished like melted snow. How could she have doubted him, even for a heartbeat?

"Neither, of course." He didn't smile this time; he was absolutely serious. He was supposed to be answering Father's question, but he was speaking directly to her. "I only want you to know that even if the king chooses someone else as his bride, I won't think you a failure or love you any less."

She believed him, every word.

"Will you come with us, Uncle?" She would feel a lot more at ease if he did. His support would mean a world to her in her attempts to win the king's attention. If Lysa could come as well, she might even be able to regard the journey as fun.

His lips curled into a smile. "I might."

But something was wrong with that smile, though Cat couldn't quite put her finger on it. It seemed kind of…sad.

Before she could ask any questions, Father's voice cut through the silence. "You will stay here and make sure everything is in order while I am gone, as is your duty."

Uncle Brynden rolled his eyes, but didn't turn to face Father. "You cannot command me, Hoster." He said firmly.

Cat would have argued that Father _could_ do that, but the unyielding determination of Uncle's tone startled her into silence. It had just the opposite effect on Father.

"I can and I will!" His eyes narrowed at his brother's back, who still hadn't deigned to look at him. "I have put up with your disobedience for years without complaints, but I will not let you turn your back on the family like this."

"I will hardly be turning my back on the family if your plans come to fruition and Cat becomes Queen." Uncle sounded almost bored with Father's objections; they must have had this argument several times already.

Father opened his mouth to spit out an angry retort, but Uncle turned to him and cut him off before he could speak.

"Haven't you already realized that trying to force me into obedience only makes me more determined to defy you, brother?" His voice was suddenly harsh and cold and sounded nothing like the loving Uncle Brynden that Cat knew. "I have stood by your side all our lives, loved your children as if they were my own because I _wanted_ to. Not because you could threaten or coax me into it. This is no different."

In contrast to Uncle's coldness, Father's blue eyes burned with rage. Cat didn't even realize she had let out a soft cry, an attempt at a plea with them to stop arguing, until Father's gaze came to rest on her.

"You may go, Cat." His tone was still sharp, though slightly less so than it had been while he'd been addressing Uncle Brynden. "Keep what we have spoken of to yourself."

She nodded hurriedly and withdrew, hoping to escape hearing range before the raised voices could reach her ears again. She hated seeing Father and Uncle at odds. Why couldn't they just get along like her and Lysa?

Lysa. She needed to find her sister. Father might have told her not to keep their conversation to herself, but she couldn't keep a secret, especially not such a big, important one, from Lysa. She would tell it in their secret language and none, including Father, would be the wiser.

So curled up in her thoughts, she failed to notice a sound of steps following her until someone grabbed her wrist, making her squeal in surprise.

"Petyr!" She hissed breathlessly as she recognized her father's ward. "It's not polite to sneak up on people!"

He didn't look even remotely sorry. His eyes were dark, his expression grave. "You can't go to the capital." He said unwaveringly. "You can't marry the king."

She yanked her wrist out of his grasp severely. "You were eavesdropping." She shot him her best scolding glare, willing him to look away in shame, as he ought to. When he didn't, she frowned and allowed acid to sneak into her tone. "Where I go and whom I marry is none of your concern. You are not my father or my brother."

"Of course it is." He snapped angrily. "Other ladies would be glad to have someone to protect them."

His concern might have been found touching – if it wasn't so audacious.

"Protect me from whom? From the king?" She scoffed contemptuously; it was most unladylike, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care. Did he not realize how foolish his words sounded? "Will you challenge him to a duel just because he will have kissed my hand, Petyr?"

His eyes narrowed at her and for a moment, she believed he would do just that.

It was in that moment she knew she had to make sure he remained in Riverrun where he could do no damage to her chances to become Queen. She couldn't have him embarrass her in the capital.

"I am going to King's Landing," She said lowly – warningly, "And if the king deems me worthy of the honour, I will marry him."

She didn't give him a chance to think of an answer. Before he could recover from the shock brought about by her cold words, she turned on her heel and walked away with her head held high. Somewhere on the way, a pang of guilt rose inside her chest for being so harsh towards him, but she silenced it as best as she could. He was the one who had been out of line, not her. She had nothing to feel guilty about.

Lysa and the septa were exactly in the same spots where she had left them. Lysa's blue eyes met hers as she entered, her features filled with light-hearted curiosity.

"What did Father want?" She asked as Cat settled back into her chair, her fingers already finding the right threads so she could continue with her work.

She pondered for a few silent moments how to answer her sister's question without giving too much away in front of the septa.

"He wanted to ask me whether I would like his gift for my nameday or if he was going to come up with something else in a rush." She let out a brief laugh, much briefer than the significant look she shared with Lysa.

Lysa glanced at the septa, who seemed completely focused on her work, oblivious to their silent exchange, and then her gaze returned to Cat.

"So did you like it?" Her cheerful tone belied the confusion in her eyes. "What is it?"

"Well, I can't tell you _now_." Cat emphasised the last word playfully, but her gaze was solemn in her promise. "It has to be a surprise for at least one of us."

* * *

"This is no fun, Ned! You fight like an old man!"

The brown-haired, grey-eyed young man sighed, but picked up his sword again from where it had landed after having been knocked from his hand. He then turned to face his friend, whose lips shaped a wide, challenging grin. His blue eyes sparked mischievously as he raised his hammer again and planted his feet firmly on the ground, waiting for Eddard to make the first move.

Despite their postures, Alyssa could tell Robert would strike first. He didn't have the patience to wait his opponents out. In her opinion, he was too self-confident for his own good, but that was a part of his appeal. His muscular torso which seemed to shine under a layer of sweat, a mane of long, black hair she yearned to run her fingers through and eyes blue like the sky above were another part. Not that she would ever tell him that. His ego didn't need more boosts.

Just as she'd guessed, he jumped at Eddard before the other young man could reach him and tried to break his defences with his superior strength. Eddard tried his best to hold him off, but no matter how fine a swordsman he was, he just couldn't get the chance to gain the upper hand. Robert's ruthless hits forced him backwards, his sword raising back up a little lower than the time before. It was clear he was tired; they must have been practicing for quite a while, longer than Alyssa had been watching them. She shouldn't even be there spying on them from a window, but with her older sister in a dancing lesson, but she just couldn't bring herself to walk away. She was quite fond of her dancing lessons, but she was fond of bare-chested Robert more.

As occupied with staring at him as she was, she didn't even notice a new figure entering the yard until a call made Robert finally have mercy on his friend and back away from him.

"You are spoiling my fun." Robert said to Alyssa's uncle Jon with the slightest note of pettiness in his voice as Eddard was gasping for breath, back bent and hands leaned on his knees. "And you are making Ned look like a maiden in distress in need of rescuing."

Eddard straightened up immediately and rolled his eyes in his friend's direction, but Robert didn't notice it (or merely pretended he didn't notice it). Uncle Jon made no remark; he knew better than to take sides between his wards.

"I will be leaving for King's Landing soon." He told the boys. "You two will accompany me – and be on your best behaviour while we are there."

"We are _always_ on our best behaviour." Robert grinned impishly, while Eddard asked curiously: "Why are going to the capital?"

"To swear loyalty to the new king." Jon answered Eddard's question, but not before shooting an incredulous look in Robert's direction. Alyssa could guess what it meant; many servant girls blushed around Robert and not for the same reason she did. "Alyssa will come with us as well; I hope to arrange a good marriage for her. While I'm occupied with that, I expect you two to keep an eye on her."

Alyssa blinked in surprise and her whole body shivered in delight. _She was coming too!_

"Of course." Eddard nodded solemnly.

Robert's grin grew. Her excitement somewhat fading, she wondered uneasily what was so funny.

"A _royal_ marriage?" The black-haired young man asked with a mocking emphasis on the middle word, which made Alyssa's heart jump into her throat, for more reasons than one.

She knew the new king was young and unmarried, but her infatuation had blinded her to the notion that she was the oldest lady of House Arryn who was still not betrothed. Her older sister Jeyne was betrothed to their cousin Denys Arryn; Uncle Jon would not risk causing rift within his own House when he had another possible lady to offer as a royal bride. He had Alyssa; even if she was only one-and-ten, she was old enough to be betrothed if not yet wed.

However, he wasn't aware Alyssa was hopelessly in love with one of his wards. She couldn't guess whether he would care if he was.

"If she catches the king's eye, I will consider it a good match." Uncle Jon said evenly. If he was caught off guard or impressed by Robert's quick wit, he didn't show it. "And a great honour for House Arryn."

Robert let an amused snort. "Little 'Lyssa a queen." He said in a condescending tone Alyssa didn't appreciate at all. "I can't even imagine it. She's just…too sweet to be Queen."

Torn between indignation and delight, she tried to do the imagining for him, even if she couldn't even say how the notion made her feel. She supposed being Queen was every woman's dream, but it had never really crossed her mind until today. In all truth, she was just…used to being invisible. Jeyne was older and prettier, her little brothers more important and Robert never noticed her. For her, dreaming of being Queen was a road that would have led to bitter disappointment; she'd been better off not taking it.

But now that she had unintentionally set foot on it, her thoughts carried her forward, even against her will. Could she really be chosen for that honour? If she was, what kind of Queen would she be? She would want to be a good queen, but what if she just wasn't made of queen material? What if she made mistakes and brought dishonour upon her House and her husband?

Her heart pounded wildly inside her chest, trying to keep up with the rhythm of her frantic thoughts. She was far from certain that she wanted this. Wouldn't it be easier to just stay in the shadows than to dare venture into the sun and risk getting burned?

"You remember how Alyssa has always been obsessed with the story about Visenya taking the Vale?" Robert's voice suddenly reached her ears, snapping her out of her musings.

While her thoughts had been wandering, the boys had once again been left alone in the yard. She held her breath, desperate not to miss a single word. She was taken aback by the fact Robert had noticed that story was her favourite, but not in an unpleasant way. Her heart beat a little faster in her chest and she covered her mouth with her hand to a hide a smile, even though nobody was there to witness it.

Eddard nodded without a word, seemingly just as confused as she was about why Robert had brought that matter up. He probably wasn't waiting for continuation as anxiously as she was, though.

"I've always thought she was jealous of that boy what's-his-name who got to ride Vhagar." _Ronnel, Robert._ Alyssa scolded silently, feeling indignation on her ancestor's behalf. "Well, it seems she might yet get to ride a dragon after all."

Alyssa's heart sank like a ship in a wild storm. Was he always so dismissive of her when he thought she wasn't looking?

Judging by the frown that furrowed Eddard's brow, the joke wasn't to his liking either.

"Please, do not say that in front of her." He said with an unusual amount of sharpness to his voice. "Do not say that ever again. It's disrespectful."

Even Robert looked taken aback by his friend's tone. "It was only a jest, Ned."

"An ill-mannered jest, Robert." Ned sheathed his sword briskly. "How would you feel if someone spoke of your sister or your cousin like that?"

His unwillingness to partake in his crude joke left Robert speechless. That didn't happen often and Alyssa had to admit she was impressed.

 _Why couldn't have Eddard caught my fancy?_ She wished not for the first time. It wasn't that he was without charms, but he simply wasn't as amiable, as handsome, as alluring as Robert. He would probably be easier to love, but her heart would not hear reason. Whenever their paths crossed, her eyes always saw the Baratheon heir first. It was out of her control, really.

"Where are you going?" Robert finally found his voice when Eddard had started walking away. For a moment, he stared after his friend, who didn't turn around once. Then his feet seemed to remember how to run and he rushed to catch up with Eddard.

"To write to my father." Eddard replied offhandedly.

Robert ignored his curt tone.

"Why?"

"To ask him if he could bring Lyanna and Benjen with him to King's Landing." Despite his anger with Robert, Eddard's voice softened. He sounded impatient, excited. "Brandon will have to stay in Winterfell in his place, but he might agree to let the two of them come with him."

"I do hope he does; I can't wait to finally meet her." Robert clasped his friend on the shoulder. "From what you've been telling me, she sounds like my kind of woman."

A pang of jealousy ran through Alyssa. She most certainly didn't want Lyanna Stark anywhere in Robert's sight. Hopefully Lord Stark would decide to leave her at Winterfell and at least spare Alyssa the fate of having to watch the man she fancied direct his attentions at yet another woman that wasn't her.

"I think you will find Lyanna too wilful for your taste." Eddard didn't seem any more pleased by the idea of Robert trying to charm his sister than Alyssa did, but it seemed it hadn't changed his mind. "I wouldn't be surprised if your advances were met with a challenge to a duel."

Robert didn't look disheartened in the slightest; if anything, his interest seemed to be piqued.

"Exactly as I've said – my kind of woman."

Eddard opened his mouth to offer another argument, then decided against it. He must have realized that the more he tried to dissuade Robert from his chosen path, the more he would insist on following it.

"You'd better put in a good word for me." Robert suddenly sounded more serious than Alyssa had heard him in all the years they'd been living in the Eerie, but only a heartbeat later, a mischievous note sneaked into his voice. "In fact, I think I will accompany you, to make sure you will describe me in a favourable light."

Eddard shook his head, but allowed Robert to lead the way. Despite his disinclination to introducing Robert to his sister, the remains of his previous excitement were still visible in his features. Alyssa suddenly felt bad for wishing Lyanna Stark to remain in the North. It must have been years since Eddard had last seen his sister; reuniting with her would surely bring him great joy. He didn't deserve to be unhappy on the account of Alyssa's jealousy. Besides, Robert would surely find another lady in the capital to look at; Lyanna Stark would probably be just one of the many.

* * *

Closing her eyes, letting the warm breeze caress her skin, Mina wished she could bet all the grand wealth of Highgarden that the letter in Mother's hands had yet to be taken to Father (if he would even get to see it at all). She had no doubt she would become so filthily rich she could buy the Seven Kingdoms if she wanted to.

( _Not that she would waste her money on something so predictable. There were far more fascinating things in the world that money could buy._ _A pretty face came to mind, but those mesmerizing eyes and perfect, sensual lips could not be bought – only seduced. And Mina loved to try – and to succeed._ )

"Leave us."

At the sound of Mother's voice, she opened her eyes and caught sight of the servant who had brought the letter walking away and a frown creasing Mother's face. They were once again left alone, sitting on a wooden bench surrounded by bushes filled with white roses in full blossom, their scent carried on the breeze to Mina's nostrils. A large tree whose branches were thickly filled with emerald leaves protected them from the sun. There were numerous similar spots all over the garden where one could rest one's feet and eyes from the brightness and warmth of sunlight (or talk without fear of being eavesdropped on), but Mina was particularly fond of this one. Hidden from view from the castle, it was one of her favourite places in all of Highgarden, perfect for all sorts of rendezvous.

"Bad news?" She nodded at the letter in Mother's hands, not particularly caring about the answer. The day was too beautiful to be wasted on worrying about anything.

As if wanting to spite her, Mother sighed in irritation. "It seems Tywin Lannister died and nobody's thought to let me know."

Mina knew that tone well enough to know it wasn't what the letter said. She chuckled lightly, not bothering to hide her amusement. "You look absolutely heartbroken."

Mother shot her a warning look that was only half-ironical. "Keep your voice down or people might think I have a heart. Reputations are built for years and…"

"And ruined in a heartbeat, I know." Mina waved off her words like she would a bothersome bee. "I have heard you the first hundred times."

"And yet your indiscretions are well known to me." Mother's eyes, the identical pale green like Mina's own, narrowed at her warningly. "Either you conceal your affairs better or, preferably, leave them behind. Once we arrive to the capital, there will be no room for mistakes."

Annoyed by Mother's constant meddling in her affairs (and even more by her ability to always catch wind of them), but intrigued by her words at the same time, Mina (grudgingly) let the latter feeling win.

"To the capital?" She asked with her eyebrows raised.

"The new king is inviting us to the tournament to choose the new member of the Kingsguard." Mother raised the letter to her face and used it as a fan, her movements as deceptively lazy as her tone. "Since his coronation was held hastily and on a short notice, he would use this opportunity to accept vows of loyalty from his lords."

"How lovely." Mina remarked drily, disappointed by the letter's contents. She'd hoped for a scandalous piece of gossip. "Why does it concern me? Am I to take part in the tournament?"

"Yes." Mother nodded in absolute seriousness, which nearly sent Mina onto her feet to go look for the maester. Olenna ignored her daughter's open mouth and widened eyes and continued in the same even tone: "But in a different kind of tournament."

Mina shrugged her shoulders casually, trying to appear uninterested. Better not let Mother know she was eager to hear the rest. "Only if the prize is worth my trouble."

Mother's eyebrows rose above her eyes. "Do you think I would have wasted our time with it if it wasn't?"

Fair point. Mina indicated with a not quite apologetic nod for her to continue.

"As there is no word of a betrothal between the king and the Lannister girl, I am to assume that either Tywin Lannister died and there was no-one to negotiate the girl's marriage for her," Mother sounded genuinely disappointed, though whether with Tywin Lannister's supposed failure at life or with lack of information about it, it was hard to say, "Or the king simply doesn't want to marry her, for whatever reason. He might simply be sick of golden-haired people."

 _Or maybe he is simply clever enough to realize her father would use her against him._ Mina mused, but kept the thought to herself. If the new king was that observant, he was surely aware that fate awaited him no matter who he married. And yet, he had to marry _someone_. _And Mother will do everything in her power to make sure he marries_ _ **me**_ _._

Being Queen surely had its advantages, but as Mother had pointed out, it would demand sacrifices. Life was meant to be relished in – delicious food, good wine, flesh sliding against flesh – but the role of Queen wasn't meant to be _enjoyed_. She would be tied to one man for the rest of her life, to one duty she would have to carry out flawlessly – birthing royal heirs of unquestionable lineage. Even if they shared none of the king's traits, they couldn't look like someone else either. Ironically, there was an easy solution to that problem, but she would probably lose her head if she dared even suggest it. Kings could bring whomever they wished to their bed, but Queens weren't allowed the same liberties.

"Is he pretty at least?" She asked with an exasperated sigh.

Mother's eyes narrowed, but Mina pointedly ignored her glare.

"Passably pretty then?"

"If he isn't, you will close your eyes and imagine he is." Mother replied dismissively. "Gods save me from idiotic sons and unambitious daughters."

Mina had expected such an answer and was ready for it.

"My ambitions are simply different than yours, Mother." She shrugged her shoulders casually. Full belly, warm bed and good company – she didn't ask for much. "If you wanted a queen in the family, why didn't you marry a prince when you had the chance?"

"You know perfectly well why I did everything in my power to make him break off the betrothal." Mother's tone turned sharper instantly; the subject still made her spit poison like a viper that felt threatened. "Your father might not be a prince or the brightest man in the Seven Kingdoms, but at least I am always welcome in his chambers. The prince was far from willing to bed me – or any woman, for that matter."

Mina was used to such insults at Father's expense coming from Mother, even when he was around to hear them. At some point, he and Mace had been dismissed from Mother's 'Small Council' (Janna was still too young to be a part of it) and Mina had become Mother's only (and unwilling) accomplice in her schemes. _Best not bother them with matters that require them to think._ Was Mother's explanation of that decision. _It tires_ _ **me**_ _more than it does them._ It wasn't the first time she felt sorry for Father for having had to wed Mother. It also wasn't the first time she second-guessed Mother's version of the split between her and the youngest son of King Aegon V.

"Well, one could say Prince Daeron was lucky." It was so satisfying watching Mother frown, trying to probe the double meaning of her words. Not to mention the opportunity to use her own words against her. "He didn't live to see his reputation completely ruined by that… _rumour_."

Mother's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying that I am lying?"

Mina blinked innocently.

"I am saying that there are two sides to every coin." She stood up and straightened her golden gown casually before turning to face Mother again, only this time she was towering over her, which gave additional weight to her gaze. "Maybe Prince Daeron indeed preferred men in his bed. Maybe it was merely your blatant ambition that caused him to spurn you and you took the opportunity to put the blame for your own failure on a dead man."

Mother rose to her feet immediately, her hands clenched into fists. Mina congratulated herself silently on unbalancing her; one did not witness ire getting better of Olenna Redweyne every day.

"Careful, Mina." Anger burst out of Mother's every word, another sure sign that she'd been shaken. "I will not tolerate your insolence."

Most men and women would have bowed their heads and begged for forgiveness at that point.

Mina smiled.

"Well then." She inclined her head in ironical farewell. "It seems you have no choice but to have Janna seduce the king with her wicked wiles. What do you think he will fall prey to sooner; her offer to play with her dolls or her desire to comb his long silver hair?"

Mother's glare looked like it willed her head to combust, but Mina ignored it. She turned on her heel and walked away, without waiting for Mother's answer. She could imagine her scowl pretty clearly, but it only made her grin widen. Mother ruled Highgarden with an iron fist; the servants feared her more than a plague and nobles avoided dealing with her if they could, but her grip on Mina weakened by the day. Despite Olenna Redweyne's efforts to raise her daughter in her own image, Mina just wasn't interested in plotting and intrigue. At the age of six-and-ten, all she wanted was an easy life, one she could enjoy to the fullest.

Alas, it seemed it was not to be her fate.

"We are leaving in three days' time." Mother called after her in the tone that allowed no objection. "I suggest you start packing your belongings."

Mina halted mid-step, suddenly feeling uneasy. Mother's last words had been coloured in a very ominous tone. She didn't _really_ mean that, did she?

"So, if I do not come back to Highgarden a queen," She hated that her voice came out uneven, "I do not come back at all?"

The silence that emerged seemed like it stretched over a few lifetimes. Mina's heart started pounding loudly in her ears, her breaths coming out unevenly. She was used to wealth that came with Tyrell name; her life would be significantly different if she was suddenly on her own, moneyless and powerless. Father loved her dearly, but he was too susceptible to Mother's influence. Would he disown her if she commanded him so? Would Mother actually do it, just to spite her?

She tried to resist the urge to turn around, but eventually broke under pressure. Even as she turned, she could see Mother's face, the threat in her eyes, the mocking sneer that curled her lip clearly in her mind's eye.

Only in reality there was no-one there.

Mina bit her lip. She needed to start packing.

* * *

"Sit down, Ashara."

Her expression schooled into mask of mild curiosity, Ashara did as she was bid and lowered herself into a chair gilded in gold, the skirts of her violet gown spreading as far as the armrests would let them. She leaned back and placed her hands into her lap, into the welcoming embrace of silk, and crossed her legs at the ankles. A perfect sight of an obedient daughter.

( _A perfect lie._ )

Seated across from her at the desk in his study, Father's stiff countenance couldn't be more unlike hers. His blue eyes glared at his hands, each holding a piece of parchment, his glare seeming to willing them both to burn. One bore the sigil of House Lannister, a lion carved in crimson; it had arrived only yesterday. The other one must have only reached Starfall, yet Ashara knew what it said. She knew why Father cursed his hastiness in replying to the Hand of the King.

"I feel I have robbed you of a chance to be Queen." Maron Dayne raised his head, his gaze softening as it rose to meet his daughter's.

She blinked at him innocently, allowing her brow to furrow in confusion – an act preformed for no other audience but her reflection so many times no-one could tell when it was genuine and when it was not. "What do you mean, Father?"

He sighed helplessly and pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as though he hadn't slept in weeks.

"I promised your hand to Lord Tywin's heir." He said with bitterness uncharacteristic for him. He was a jovial man, a kind and gentle father and husband, a lover and supporter of various forms of art. He'd been so elated when they'd spoken yesterday of the honour and prosperity Ashara's marriage with Jaime Lannister would bring to House Dayne. His enthusiasm had almost made her believe she would find her own fairytale prince in the young Lannister boy, even if the match (at least from her side) was based on political advantage rather than love, or even wealth.

"You sound as though you regret it." She remarked softly, leaning slightly forward as though she couldn't contain her curiosity.

He sighed deeply again and locked eyes with hers.

"Knowing what I know now, I do regret it." He tossed the letter that bore the royal sigil to her lethargically, as if all his hopes had sunk down like Nymeria's ships on the Narrow Sea. "This has just arrived from King's Landing. An invitation to a tournament to select the newest knight of the Kingsguard."

She unfolded the parchment carefully and scanned over its contents quickly. When she was done, she placed it back onto the desk and leaned back into the chair.

"Just because I would be there doesn't mean the king would choose me to be his wife." She pointed out. "All the other lords who have been invited will surely bring their daughters with them. He could choose any one of them."

"Yes, but you are closest to him in age." He countered, but then his lips shaped a small smile. "And most certainly the loveliest."

She beamed back at him; it was more genuine than most of her smiles. "Every father would say that about his daughter."

"Yes," He nodded vigorously, his smile widening a bit more, "But only I would be right."

She let out a quiet laugh, hating herself with a heat of a thousand Dornish summers for the hollowness of it. Lying to him was hard, not because he was clueless about what was truly going on beneath his own roof, but because he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to be used as a tool in a war that was not his to wage. If he were a cruel man, a brute she could easily hate, she would do so with pleasure, but a lady could not ask for a more loving and gentle father. She didn't deserve his love and the knowledge hurt deeply.

But she had come too far to turn her back on her family now. She was her mother's daughter first and foremost.

 _You will wed the Lannister boy. Arthur already has the king's ear; it's the Hand we must keep under control. With his precious heir in your clutches, we will._

Father ran his hand through his black hair. "I haven't the slightest idea how I could break off the betrothal between you and the Lannister boy," He said, shooting a quick glare at the note with the lion sigil again, "If I write to Lord Tywin that I have changed my mind…"

"You don't need to worry, Father." She interrupted him gently, taking his hand into hers, letting her words sink in as skin brushed against skin. "I think being the Lady of Casterly Rock will suit me just as fine as being Queen would."

His eyes widened at her words, as if he couldn't grasp the calmness with which she accepted her unchangeable fate. She waited for him to come to terms with it, motionless like a statue. Dousing the Dornish fire within her blood was an everlasting battle, but years gone by (and Mother's lessons) had carved patience into it. She held Father's gaze easily, not blinking once, unyielding in her decision.

"Are you sure?" He said at last, placing his other hand over hers and squeezing it gently.

For the first time, her perfect mask cracked. Her eyes snapped shut and she inhaled sharply, as though he'd slapped her. Part of her wished he had. He was too kind. She was too conniving.

One day, he would look upon her with a betrayed look in his violet eyes. It would break her heart, it was as certain as sunrise.

"Yes, Father." She inclined her head. _I am sure._ The rest of the words remained stuck inside her throat.

He nodded and let go of her hand. In one swift move, he picked up the letters and brought them to the flame of a candle. They watched them burn in silence and with them all the words left unsaid.

 _Forgive me, Father. For not saying that I loved you at the time when you would still have believed me._

* * *

 _Breathe in._ Leyla repeated to herself silently as she pulled the thread in her needlework by the needle. _Breathe out._

Then she repeated the process. _Breathe in. Breathe out._

The conversation with her stepmother still lingered in her thoughts, like a fever her mind couldn't shake off. _As Alerie is already betrothed, you are the next in line._ Lady Maryanne Langward had told her just after they had broken their fast that morning, her voice flat and uncaring. The innocent, careless laughter of the nine-year-old Denyse, seven-year-old Alysanne and six-year-old Gunthor, her children and Leyla's half-siblings, who had been laughing among themselves, couldn't have been more in disparity with it; the disharmony had made Leyla tremble reflexively, even more than the news her stepmother had shared with her. _You will accompany your father to King's Landing. While there, do try to be noticed; it's of no use to House Hightower if you are as forgettable as a serving girl._

Leyla's confidence was frail at best; Lady Maryanne's harsh warning did it little good. Unlike her sisters, who all had light blond hair and blue eyes of Hightowers (with the exception of Alerie, who shared Leyla's grey eyes and Denyse, who had the same green eyes and dark brown, nearly ebony hair like her mother), Leyla looked nothing like her father, having inherited light brown hair, grey eyes and quite ordinary features from her mother's side. She was considered only passably pretty for a daughter for a lord, an opinion that had ultimately resulted in her shy nature. At two-and-ten, when young women craved attention from handsome men, Leyla barely resisted the urge to curl into a ball and hide every time anyone so much as glanced her way. Her coyness had never mattered to anyone, as she was only the third daughter – until now.

 _If only Alerie could go in my place._ She wished not for the first time that day. Her only full-blood sister was by far lovelier and more confident; she would surely draw attention, maybe even attention of the king himself. Unfortunately, Alerie had recently been betrothed to the heir of House Tyrell and thus the role of the possible bride for the king fell to Leyla.

 _If only Denyse was older._ Was her other wish. _Or Malora…saner._

She hadn't laid eyes on her oldest half-sister for…she couldn't even remember how long, but she would be lying if she claimed she didn't breathe more easily for it. She liked Lord Leyton's first wife's other children, Baelor and Garth, well enough, but Malora's company made her feel nothing short of uncomfortable. The oldest Hightower girl had tendencies to mumble incomprehensible words under her breath, as if talking to herself, barely aware of where she was or who she was with. Her eyes were constantly bloodshot, as though she barely slept, and she was so thin Leyla thought the lightest gust of wind would lift her into the air and carry her away like a leaf. Whispers of 'the Mad Maid' spread through Hightower like sickness; if her opinion was asked for, Leyla doubted she would be able to deny them.

 _It's better that I go than Malora._ She thought with a sigh, trying to reassure herself. _I might never be chosen, but at least there is no risk that she might become Queen. Who knows what she would do._

"Leyla."

Startled, she accidentally pricked her finger on the needle. She barely felt the pain, as it was overshadowed by the surprise (and discomfort) she felt upon seeing Malora standing at the door, as if she'd been summoned by her thoughts. Her skin was pale as the rocks beneath the Hightower, the bags under her blue eyes as dark as clouds on a rainy day, emphasising her hollowed cheeks. She looked like a creature from a nightmare, something not quite human; Leyla struggled to keep her gaze on her face.

"Ma…" She cleared her throat nervously. "Malora. What…what are you doing here?"

Without answering the question, Malora stepped inside and closed the door. Leyla couldn't help shivering as her half-sister seated herself on the divan next to her. She was…strange, but surely she wouldn't… _harm_ her?

"If you become Queen, you will not birth heirs." Malora threw the words straight into Leyla's face without any introduction or warning.

Their tone and contents indeed made them seem like a slap. For a few moments, Leyla struggled to regain composure and control over her breathing.

"How could you know that?" She demanded in a shaking voice, the little courage she possessed already deserting her. "I am…I am not…"

"If you don't become Queen, befriend the one that will." Malora cut off her attempts at an answer; the evenness of her voice was unnerving. "We must keep the flames under control. It is our duty, do you understand?"

Leyla wanted to shake her head fiercely, to yell that she had no idea what Malora was blabbering about in her madness, but instincts stayed her movements. If she pretended to understand what Malora meant by what she had said, she would be spared more time in her company and be left alone. That was all she wanted.

She gave the smallest nod. It seemed to satisfy Malora.

"I wish you a safe journey." Leyla froze when Malora suddenly took her hand into hers and squeezed it gently, as if she was a caring older sister. "You must tell me all about it when you return."

"Why?"

Leyla only realized that word had come out of her mouth when Malora's eyes narrowed at her. Apart from that, her expression didn't change in the slightest, which scared Leyla more than her yelling would because she couldn't predict Malora's next move. Would she lunge at her neck next?

"Why do you want me to tell you all about it?" She felt as if her heart had jumped into her throat, but words somehow found way past it, even though she hadn't intended to say more. Her hand was shaking in Malora's; she wished to pull it out of her grip, but couldn't, as the more she struggled, the deeper Malora's nails sank into her skin. "You have never cared about me. About anything."

Malora's features relaxed then, as if she'd expected some other accusation to be thrown her way, something much more repellent than being a bad sister.

"My task is to keep you safe from the fire." She said matter-of-factly, as if her words should make sense to Leyla. "The king you will soon meet has fire in his blood. That makes him dangerous."

Leyla swallowed hard. _As if she wasn't strained enough._ "Dangerous? Because of…" She hesitated, "The madness?"

To her surprise, Malora shook her head.

"Mad or sane, they are all dangerous." She whispered, as if afraid they might be eavesdropped on. "Nobody knows how dangerous but us. Ceryse Hightower was supposed to end Visenya's line – and she did, more or less. If Alicent Hightower had managed to do the same with Rhaenys', we would be safe."

Leyla forced herself to remember her history lessons. It was Tyanna of the Tower that had ended Visenya's line by poisoning Maegor the Cruel's children in their mothers' wombs. As for Alicent Hightower, her actions had been inspired by her desire to see her son – half-Hightower, but also half-Targaryen – on the Iron throne. Malora must have been speaking nonsense again.

"Our part has to be hidden from them, you see." Her doubts clearly showed on her face, for Malora offered another foreboding explanation – which only inspired more questions. "Otherwise they would bring fire and blood with them to the Hightower and doom us all."

Torn between wanting to know more and desire to run as far away as possible from Malora, Leyla sat in silence, trying to calm her racing thoughts. She had not even departed for the capital yet and she already felt exhausted. How was she supposed to compete for the role of Queen against the prettiest girls of noble birth in the Realm when she couldn't even hold her own against her (half-)siblings?

Malora suddenly stood up, startling her again. She wasn't sure how many more surprises her trembling heart could handle today.

"I won't bother you with those concerns anymore." Malora said softly, with a reassuring smile playing on her lips. For the first time in eternity, as much as Leyla could remember, she actually looked human. "Rest assured; I will keep us safe. But you must do your part as well."

Leyla forced herself to nod; it was as difficult swimming against the stream.

When Malora turned to leave, she let out a quiet breath of relief. A heartbeat later, she was choking on it as Malora's eyes met hers once again.

"I know you think me mad." Once again, there had been no warning – just words that caught Leyla completely off guard, even if she was aware they were true. She blushed and cast her eyes down like a child caught stealing sweets.

Judging by her unchanged tone, Malora wasn't offended. "But this conversation must not leave this room. Not even as a jest at my expense or a complaint about my insanity. Promise me, Leyla."

Later on, Leyla couldn't remember making any promise. She only remembered the empty room and a flower of blood blooming on the tip of her forefinger.

* * *

"What's the point of holding a tournament no sane person would want to win?" Oberyn asked as he crumpled the letter in his fist and rolled it lazily across the table towards Doran. "I'd have to be dead drunk and completely out of my mind to enter it. And if I can't compete, what's the point in going to the capital?"

Doran didn't even seem to register his complaints. He leaned his elbows onto the table and intertwined his fingers, his eyes looking at his siblings, but seeing something else – a puzzle he was solving, piece by piece. Elia knew that look well enough. Her oldest brother was a man of little words, but many, many thoughts. Too many, it began to seem – lines were already creasing his forehead and the corners of his eyes.

She turned to Oberyn, long since used to her role as the bridge between her brothers, dousing Oberyn's fire and melting Doran's icy calmness until they were balanced.

"Are you calling Uncle Lewyn mad?" She asked with a playfully raised eyebrow. "You will be his favourite no longer when he hears of it."

Oberyn snorted, his black eyes sparking impishly. "He cannot take offence, as he is barely Kingsguard as it is. I clearly remember from my lessons that they are supposed to be sworn to celibacy and we all know what a great example he's giving in that regard."

He chuckled lowly to himself, but failed to resist the urge to share his thoughts with the rest of the room: "In fact, it baffles me that his fellow knights are still uncorrupted and as innocent as maidens on their wedding nights."

Elia let out a quiet laugh under her breath at the remark. The fire that burned in the blood of every Dornish man, woman and child was inextinguishable. It had burned dragons more than once of the course of history; covering it with a white cloak could hardly contain it.

"Here is your reason for going." Doran suddenly spoke up, drawing his siblings' attention. "You pick up on the newest gossip while I swear allegiance to the new king. I would very much like to know why his betrothal to the Lannister girl hasn't been announced."

Oberyn looked at Elia with genuine revulsion on his face. She knew what he would say even before he said it. "Do you remember how horrid she was to her own brother when we visited Casterly Rock?"

Elia nodded quietly; of course she remembered. She had been shocked that a young girl could be so cruel, to a mere babe, to her own family. Cries of the youngest Lannister boy had hunted her mind long after she'd left his presence, as had the malicious glint in his sister's eyes.

"Who would even want to marry such a mean little snake?" Oberyn's snarl brought her back to the present. "To be honest, I feel indebted to her father that he refused to let her wed me. One of us would have been dead within the month of the wedding."

Elia was also glad Oberyn was free of Cersei Lannister's clutches; she wouldn't have liked to have the girl as goodsister. Her twin brother had seemed like a decent child at the time, but too susceptible to her influence. If Tywin Lannister had honoured his late wife's wishes and allowed his son's marriage to Elia to come to pass, there was no way for her to be certain how many people would have been in it. Though she could appreciate a close bond between siblings, sharing one with her own brothers, she wouldn't have stood for anyone's meddling into her marriage and she was certain that in the home of lions it would have been a common occurrence rather than exception. For that reason, she was relieved she hadn't become Lady of Casterly Rock, though it would have been a great honour for her and House Martel. On the other hand, she felt offended that Tywin Lannister thought her beneath his heir, but good enough for his younger dwarf son. She pitied the child, but not enough to wed him; she was no saint. Even if he was of more handsome appearance, he was only a second son – their supposed children would have been heirs to nothing, a state of affairs she found unacceptable.

In all truth, it was Mother who was most disappointed, saddened even, that her plans connived with Joanna Lannister had borne no fruit. There was no proof of that theory, of course, but Elia was certain it was at the moment when those plans had crumbled into dust that Mother's health had begun to deteriorate. She grew weaker by the day; Doran was now the ruling Prince of Dorne in all but name.

"Perhaps her innocent mask slipped in front of the king as well and it made him decide to reject her." Oberyn's voice once again snapped her out of her musings, still filled with contempt for the Lannister girl. "Smart man."

"I'm not that much interested in why he rejected her – if he _did_ reject her," Doran said calmly, "As much as in how he kept the Hand from turning on him for such a slight."

 _How it can be done again._ Went unsaid, but everyone could hear the words lingering in the air.

"It would be the second time the Hand's daughter was refused as the future Queen." Elia pointed out matter-of-factly, but with the slightest mocking note in her tone; she couldn't help being glad that plans of the man who deemed her unworthy of his heir were being thwarted. "I very much doubt his pride would accept that lightly."

Doran nodded his agreement.

"Maybe the boy learned from his father's mistakes and refused to be just an empty figure on the throne." His eyes fixed firmly on Elia's. "Such a king would benefit us more – if he could be convinced to work in everyone's best interest."

She raised a cynical eyebrow. _And who would 'us' and 'everyone' be, brother? Dorne? The Realm? Martells?_

"You are his closest living female relative, not counting the Dowager Queen." Doran ignored the look she was shooting him; she wondered if he could see the answer clearly himself. "Silver-haired or not, Targaryen blood runs through your veins. It may tip the scale in your favour."

It was true; if the king wanted a bride of Valyrian blood (assuming she wasn't a foreigner), Elia was essentially his only choice, as Houses Baratheon, Velaryon and Celtigar lacked a daughter of appropriate age. She doubted it would be that easy, though; she knew her frail health and her age could be used as arguments against her. No doubt all the lords who would bring their own daughters to King's Landing to the tournament wouldn't hesitate to subtly remind the king of it. A flicker of uncertainty passed through her, but she reminded herself she possessed skills a king might find useful. She knew how to navigate waters of a court, how to rule a household and could handle herself in negotiating trade deals. Age and experience were two sides of the same coin.

Ultimately, she couldn't really estimate her chances until she met King Rhaegar, until she learned what he wanted in a queen. Did he want a meek, obedient wife who wouldn't question him or a partner whom he could seek council with when he was at a crossroads? She would much prefer having to play the latter part, but was prepared to show him whatever face he desired, as long as it would enable her suggestions and advice to reach him. If she indeed became Queen, she would look after Dorne's interest first, of course, but if she found a way to make the whole Realm prosper, she would use it. It wouldn't be bad to be remembered as the second Good Queen.

"Elia doesn't need that to tip the scale in her favour." As soon as she locked eyes with Oberyn, he sent her a roguish wink. "She will become Queen because she is the smartest and the loveliest."

She rolled her eyes, but a smile escaped her lips against her will. "You don't have to flatter me, Oberyn."

An amused grin spread over his face, from ear to ear. "But you love it when I do. Admit it, sister."

She crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to appear indifferent to his challenge (fully aware she was probably failing miserably).

"I will admit to no such thing."

"You don't have to." His grin, somehow, became even wider. "I know it."

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't get the chance to answer, as Doran interfered.

"Everyone knows their part then?" He asked, more to prevent them from getting caught up in banter that could last for an eternity than to question their awareness of the plan.

Turning to face their older brother, Oberyn waved his hand dismissively. "You will handle the formal part of the affair, I the informal. In the meantime, Elia will charm the king. Easy enough. Though," He cast a challenging look at Elia, "If you don't feel up to the task, we can switch roles. I'm confident the king would fall prey to my charms as well."

"I'm almost tempted to let you try and watch you embarrass yourself," Elia replied with a mocking curl of lips of her own, "But I know Doran would have both of our heads if I allowed it to happen."

Said brother stood up from his seat even before she finished the sentence. For a moment, it seemed he would walk away and leave them to their battle of wits without a word, but then his gaze met hers and the left corner of his lips rose up.

"You always were the smarter of the two of you."

* * *

One gust of wind after another blew into Lyanna's face, landing like slaps onto her cheeks. Long black locks of hair, which her maids had wasted better part of the morning on weaving into a braid, flew by her side like ropes made of shadows trying to catch her, to restrain her.

She welcomed the challenge with a carefree smile. Out in the open, free from chains made not of iron, but expectations, she felt awake. With her heart racing inside her chest, her blood singing with desire for places as far as the skies above, she felt _alive_.

She kicked at the horse's side with her heels, sending it into a gallop across the North's wide fields. The grass was more grey than green beneath its hooves, as if reflecting the clouds that claimed the sky as their own for as far as the eye could see. It was hard to believe there was an end to this sight, that there were things such as cities, castles, people. For a moment, Lyanna could imagine she and Aly, the black mare who'd been her faithful companion since her tenth nameday, were the only living beings in the world.

Unfortunately, that moment passed all too fast, when she was snapped out of her reverie by the voice of her governess.

"Lady Lyanna, less daydreaming and more work." The bore of a woman said in that patronizing tone that made Lyanna want to chop her own ears off so she would never have to hear it again. "You will not leave this room until I am satisfied with your embroidery."

 _And you never will be._ Lyanna rolled her eyes. The woman ignored her, so proud of being superior at everything a lady ought to be to a girl of one-and-ten. _Let's put a sword in your hand and an opponent on the other side of the yard and see what use your sewing and your prayers and your perfectly ladylike behaviour will be of to you then._

The words were at the tip of her tongue, but with great effort, she managed to rein her mouth in. Father had already had her sword-fighting lessons and time she was allowed to spend riding cut short the last time she'd been less than pleasant to Lady Elanna; he might ban them altogether if she threw a tantrum again. She hated having to hold her tongue, but over the years she'd learned how far she could push her luck and she knew Father would not take her side on this. He had allowed her many liberties other girls in the Seven Kingdoms didn't have, but he would take them all away if her womanly skills, like sewing and dancing, suffered (too much) because of them.

She might have even less time to improve than even Lady Elanna knew; only a fortnight ago, she had overheard Father talking to Maester Walys about her marriage prospects. Horrified as she'd been (and still was) by the idea, she wouldn't even have stayed to listen in on them if Ned's name hadn't been mentioned. As it seemed, he'd become good friends with the heir to Stormlands, who was also fostered at the Eerie with Jon Arryn. Maester Walys considered Robert Baratheon to be a good match for her and Father agreed. He wouldn't write to Lord Steffon Baratheon just yet to negotiate the marriage, but it couldn't be delayed for too long, lest the future lord of Stormlands be grabbed by some other concerned father who wanted to secure a future for his daughter.

For her part, Lyanna didn't want to wed _anyone_. With husbands came expectations, restrictions, obligations, as Lady Elanna continuously reminded her. She wanted none of that. Her dream was to roam freely, to explore the world at her leisure. She wanted to see the grand cities of Essos, swim in the waters of Dorne, race against the best riders of the Dorthraki, visit the ruins of Old Valyria and be the first one to live to tell the tale, sleep in the shadows of Asshai. What sort of a husband would allow his wife to do all that?

Nearby, someone cleared their throat, snapping her out of her musings. "Lyanna?"

She raised her head; Father was standing in front of her, dressed in the same shade of pale grey as she was, with Ice at his side, as if having been summoned by her thoughts. Acutely aware of Lady Elanna's critical gaze, she stood up quickly and dropped her needlepoint onto the chair where she'd been sitting, hoping he hadn't come to check on her progress (not that she believed he had any right to judge her skills – men should try to sew themselves before calling out on women for not being satisfyingly good at it).

"Father." She inclined her head and curtsied swiftly, its only purpose being the silencing of Lady Elanna's objections before she could voice them.

"I am glad to see you taking _all_ your lessons more seriously." He said with a note of approval in his voice; he clearly hadn't had the chance to observe her needlework in detail. "You will soon need all the knowledge and skills at your disposal."

Lyanna raised her eyebrows in bafflement, trying to guess whether she'd heard him wrong. He'd made it sound as though she would soon be heading into battle, but in what kind of battle could sewing and dancing possibly prove useful?

"Why?" She asked directly, never the one to wait for the other side to finally spit the words out.

A smile crossed Father's face, as though he found her straightforwardness endearing. As much as Lyanna knew, very few people felt the same; all of them bore the name Stark.

"We have been invited by the king to the capital to a tournament to choose the new member of the Kingsguard." He replied, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Brandon will stay in Winterfell in my place, but you and Benjen will come with me to swear loyalty to the new king."

When the meaning of his words finally settled within her mind, she felt a part of her darkening in disappointment that her oldest brother wouldn't come with them. However, it was overshadowed by the excitement of the impending journey like the light of the sun outweighed that of starts. Her imagination was already painting vivid sights in her mind's eye; travelling down the King's road on horseback with wind in her hair, a city with a large red castle towering over it before her, the sea as blue as sapphires spreading as far as the eye could see, knights, squires, shields, spears, bows, swords. It would all be before her eyes soon enough, real as the palm of her hand. However, she wanted more than just see it; she wanted to _feel_ it. The prospect of secretly entering the tournament, of defeating inexperienced boys and arrogant men with a sword, made her heart thunder inside her chest. She could do it. She would be wearing a helmet and a tunic and breeches; no-one, not even Father, would be able to recognize her. She would talk Benjen into covering for her absence among the spectators. And if she won, she would simply disappear among the crowd and someone else would be declared champion (and Kingsguard), but in her heart, she would know she'd bested them all.

"I expect you to look after one another during our stay." Father's voice cut through her fantasy; she hoped she hadn't missed much while she'd been daydreaming of her victory at the tournament. "And to always be pleasant and attentive to our hosts and other guests."

The mention of other guests lifted her spirits even higher, if that was even possible. "Will Ned come too?"

"I expect he will." Father nodded with a smile. "I'm sure Lord Arryn has been invited to the capital as well and I have received no word of your brother's improper behaviour that would cause him to leave him in the Eerie."

Lyanna could feel her grin spreading from ear to ear. She missed Ned dearly and couldn't wait to hug him again. She would put up with a year of doing nothing else but sewing for a chance to see him; she gave silent thanks to the gods that such a torture wasn't necessary.

"When are we leaving?" Judging by her governess' scowl, her voice was bursting with most unladylike eagerness. In all truth, she couldn't care less. "Please, don't write to Ned to tell him we are coming. I want to surprise him."

Father chuckled lightly in amusement, but nodded. "He will not hear it from me. We will be leaving in a few days."

She could have jumped at him and hugged him in sheer delight, but settled for giving him the brightest smile she could muster. His words had brought her joy like she hadn't felt in quite a while; she could almost forgive him for…

She cleared her throat lowly, inconspicuously, she hoped. "Is his friend coming too?" She tried to make her voice sound nonchalant, but even to her own ears it seemed she didn't quite succeed. "The one who Ned says is a lot like Brandon?"

Father's dark eyes narrowed at her slightly, as if he was trying to guess where she was heading with that question. Too late it occurred to Lyanna that her inquiries could lead him to the realization that she'd eavesdropped on him and the maester. She cursed her big mouth; she really needed to learn how to restrain her tongue before it could land her into trouble.

"I believe so." Father said at last, his tone neutral.

She was just about to let out a subtle sigh of relief when he asked: "Why do you ask?"

Her big mouth that usually had so many things to say was suddenly silent as a grave. _Damn it._

"Well…" She shifted weight from one foot onto the other, forcing herself to _think_. "I want to see…how similar to Brandon he really is." She blurted out in one breath, hoping her explanation sounded convincing. "I don't believe they are _that much_ alike. There is no-one quite like Brandon."

"I heard my name." The person in question suddenly appeared at the door, drawing both her and Father's attention, and shot a cheeky grin at Lyanna, who didn't hesitate for a moment to mirror it. "All bad, I hope."

"Always." She teased.

His dark eyes alight with mischief, he walked over to her and wrapped a hand around her shoulder. He was a head taller than her and growing still; she took great delight in smacking him over the head when he deserved it (and sometimes when he didn't – not entirely), knowing soon enough she wouldn't be able to reach it.

"So, I hear you are going to the capital to have fun without me." The fake hurt on his face was so overdramatic it was hilarious. "And here I thought you loved me, sister."

She forced her face to express something similar to pity, even if she was barely holding back laughter beneath the façade.

"I do love you, brother." She patted his shoulder sympathetically, which reached just above the top of her head. "But I love Ned more."

He placed his right hand over his heart and stumbled theatrically, like he'd been shot in the chest with an arrow.

"Cruel as winter's wind." He said when he 'recovered' and regained the balance he'd never really lost. "For all those southern lordlings' sakes, I do hope you will not be as cruel to them as you are to me. Their feeble hearts would not be able to stand it."

She paused for a moment, processing his words. There was wisdom in them…

"Don't put ideas in her head." Father interfered, clearly having sensed what was going on inside her mind. "She will be on her best behaviour in the capital and should she catch anyone's eye, she will be nothing short of pleasant and loving to them." His gaze turned on her; there was not a single spark of light-heartedness in it. "Isn't that right, Lyanna?"

She could (up to a point) restrain her mouth, but she could not restrain her eyes.

 _I will not wed anyone._ She screamed at Father soundlessly. _I will be discourteous and cold, so no-one will_ _ **want**_ _to wed me._

She could tell Father read her glare perfectly. He kept staring at her, as if his gaze could bend her to his will. It only made her defiance rise like a wave on surface of the sea; she refused to accept this was to be her fate. To be looked down on by a man, day by day for the rest of her life. She would fight Father and her future husband and every man who would try to break her every step of the way, she swore.

 _Maybe I was born in the wrong House. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken – I think I like the Martells' words better._

"You will behave as befitting of a highborn lady." Father was the first to finally interrupt the silence, but his gaze remained as unwavering as ever; she had not won. "Your conduct will not only mark _you_ , but our House as well. I will not have anyone in the capital think the North a land of savages."

"Why should we care what the southerners think?" Brandon cut in before Lyanna could respond. She didn't mind, because she stood behind his question wholeheartedly. "We think _them_ weak and meek and they know it and don't care. It's the same with us. They can think whatever they want; their opinion will not steal my sleep."

"Their good opinion might one day feed our people." Father said firmly, brushing off his eldest son's objection. "A time might come when we will need their crop and they will be more likely to provide it if they regard us as men, not as half-beasts unable to control their own temper."

"We can control our temper." Brandon protested fiercely, followed by Lyanna's enthusiastic nod.

Father merely raised an eyebrow.

"We can!" They yelled in unison; it was only when the corners of Father's lips curled in amusement that Lyanna realized how quickly they'd proved him right.

Never the one to back down from a challenge or behave as she was expected to, she shrugged Brandon's hand off and stepped forward towards Father with her head held high, leaving her brother and his mutterings out of the conversation.

"I will not embarrass our House." She promised solemnly, her voice steady and firm. No matter how hard she believed it would be, she would play the part of a lady (in public, anyway). It wouldn't last forever; soon enough they would return back home and life would go on just the same.

Save for one simple matter…

"I will stay close to Ned and Benjen." Her voice grew slightly angry; it was not the words she wanted to say. _I will stay away from everyone else, so I don't_ _ **have to**_ _be pleasant._ "Surely my desire to spend time with Ned can't be regarded as impolite."

Father sighed, but nodded his agreement. He wasn't entirely happy with the compromise (and neither was she), but he understood it was the only bargain she was willing to make. It was unheard of that a daughter dared pose demands to her father, but if there was one thing Lyanna excelled at (besides riding and swordplay), it was breaking rules.

"At least I can count on Eddard to keep you and Benjen out of trouble." He said at last. "Don't make it too hard on him."

He turned around and walked out of the room without waiting for an answer. Lyanna's attention once more turned to her oldest brother.

"If I were coming, trouble is all where we would be in." Brandon said in a more cheerful tone than his last words had been coloured in. He sounded proud of his ability to find (and cause) trouble, a sentiment Lyanna shared. "Are you sure you love Ned more?"

She grinned widely.

"Absolutely sure." She insisted. "If I was _always_ in trouble, it would stop being fun."

He threw a hand over her shoulder and pulled her into a half-embrace, then looked down his nose at her.

"With such a clever mind, you will have extreme difficulties finding a husband. Men don't like their wives too smart." He winked at her playfully. "Something tells me it's exactly your intention."

She blinked at him innocently. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Of course you don't." He placed a quick kiss on her forehead. "I know you, just like me, can't help your natural charms, but do try not to break too many hearts."

* * *

 _It's not fair._ Cersei bit the inner side of her cheek, wishing she could scream in frustration until the entire world became deaf due to the lioness' roar. She felt like her wrath would burn through her skin and her body would burst into flames. Part of her wished for it fervently, even if it would kill her; nobody could turn their eyes from _that_.

However, the only thing more dominant than a lion's rage was its pride. Until her hair grew back and she was beautiful again, her blood would boil in silence, as not to draw unwanted attention.

( _Only one person's attention she would welcome – but for him she appeared to have ceased to exist. Night after night, she waited patiently for him (or at least Ser Arthur) in their secret meeting place, but he never came. She didn't understand why he ignored her – or why she kept coming back, knowing she would be disappointed._ )

Despite her fury, her eyes drank in the sight that caused it; her twin brother sparring with Ser Barristan just beneath the Tower of the Hand. Like a lover desperately in love with her own pain, she had commanded Lady Serala that they spent the afternoon on the balcony that overlooked the yard. She had long since stopped pretending she was reading a book of prayers to the Seven, her gaze fixed on the duel beneath. As metal met metal, she could see herself in Jaime's place in her mind's eye; sweaty and bruised, but too stubborn to give up, too eager to continue, too determined to win…

As their swords stood pressed against one another, Jaime suddenly let his blade glide down Ser Barristan's, causing the man to momentarily lose his balance. Using the moment of the knight's distraction, Jaime ducked beneath his arm and tried to land a hit on his back. He nearly succeeded, but Ser Barristan evaded it at the last moment. Jaime jumped after him like a lion after his prey, but the Kingsguard was already waiting for him. Blades clashed again, but this time the man and the boy stood face to face, which allowed Ser Barristan to grab Jaime's wrist and twist it until Cersei's twin was forced to drop the sword.

After a few moments, as if confirming that the round was indeed over, the knight let go. Jaime instantly pulled his hurt hand closer, checking it for possible damage. When he found his wrist unharmed, he bent down and picked up the sword, but unlike all the previous times he'd been beaten, he didn't raise his sword again.

"You think I cheated; I can see it on your face." Ser Barristan said as he and Jaime locked eyes again. "But there is no cheating or playing fair on the field of battle. The only thing you _must_ do is survive."

Cersei silently agreed with the knight. That was what she'd done in Duskendale, right? She _had survived_.

Due to her position, she was the first one who noticed Father and Uncle Kevan entering the yard. Ser Barristan saw them next, Jaime, who had had his back turned to them, last.

"My Lord Hand. Ser Kevan." Ser Barristan nodded in greeting to the Lannister men, his voice even to the point of coldness.

"Ser Barristan." Father returned the nod, unaffected. His tone gained a sharp, commanding edge. "You will have to cut your lesson short today. I need to speak with my son."

A tense silence emerged, brief enough not to be considered defying, just long enough to be noticed.

"We were just about to end it." The knight said as he sheathed his sword.

Jaime's shoulders fell, a clear indication that he didn't want the lesson to end so soon, even if he'd been knocked on the ground a dozen times. He'd been dissatisfied when he'd learned he would be practicing with Ser Barristan instead of Ser Arthur (even if his disappointment hadn't been obvious to anyone but Cersei), but had grown attached to his new mentor so quickly one would think he had never had another one in mind. He always came back from his lessons with an enthusiastic glint in his eyes, a glint Cersei imagined had sparked in her own eyes when she would return to her chambers at night with weariness in her bones that spoke of her effort to prove herself a worthy opponent to the Crown Prince, an equal.

 _Why hasn't he come to see me?_ She asked herself a hundredth, a thousandth time. _Does he love another and he doesn't need me anymore? Another, younger and more beautiful? But I am not Queen yet. How can there be another already?_

"Careful, you are damaging the book."

She turned to face Lady Serala, but the red-haired woman's gaze was already fixed on the needlework in her hand, as if she hadn't spoken at all. Her warning made Cersei glance at her own hands; the pages were crumpled in her fists, her knuckles white.

"It's just a book." She muttered, but relaxed her grasp.

Lady Serala raised her head and glanced at the book briefly, then directed her piercing gaze at Cersei's face.

"A book that tells me – and everyone with eyes – more about your state of mind than about praying." She said forthrightly; her tone made it clear she would accept no denial. "Whatever it is that is troubling you, it's getting better of you."

One of Lady Serala's most admirable characteristics was that her voice, unlike Father's, never sounded lecturing when she made such observations. For that reason, Cersei found her opinions easier to acknowledge than most. The former Lady Darklyn was by far her most tolerable companion, the only person (besides Jaime) she met on a daily basis that didn't make her feel like she was silently being pitied or mocked at.

As per some unsaid agreement, they hadn't touched the subject of the events in Duskendale, not even after Cersei had learned of Denys Darklyn's demise. If Lady Serala was mourning her foolish, arrogant husband, Cersei couldn't tell. She _had_ gone behind his back to help Cersei escape, hadn't she? But why did she often wear the same unreadable expression on her face, as if it was a shield that defended some sort of a secret? Was it merely a consequence of her decline in station, a way for her to keep thoughts to herself that she could have spoken freely before, rather than a sign of grief over a lost husband?

Despite her unwillingness to accept any kind of help from Father, born out of resentment for his treatment of her after his return from Duskendale (and on many other occasions) Cersei hadn't forgotten his warning about Lady Serala. She might be grieving; she might not.

"You won't ask _what_ is troubling me?" She said, wanting to bait the woman into responding, to create a weakness in her companion's mask of stone.

Her attempt was frustratingly unsuccessful; Lady Serala only shrugged her shoulders calmly.

"If you wanted me to know, you would tell me." She replied evenly, as if she didn't even care about the answer.

Her indifference took Cersei aback. Servants loved to gossip; any of her other maids would surely take a chance to learn something more or less scandalous about their mistress in a heartbeat.

"But don't you want to know?" She tried once again, hoping to catch Lady Serala off guard. "And remember you are my servant now; don't lie to me."

That provoked a reaction; the slightest curl of a lip.

"It is not my place to ask you such questions." She said, once more avoiding giving a straight answer. "It is a duty of a mother, which I am not. I am, as you have just reminded me, your servant."

Cersei's breath caught; for a few moments, she couldn't think clearly.

She doubted there was any hidden meaning behind Lady Serala's words, but her thoughts had already turned to Joanna, like a stone that could not escape the pull of the bottom of the sea.

Since the day of Rhaegar's return from Duskendale, her desire to speak to him about many things was only matched by her desire to speak to his mother about one particular matter – and just as strong as the fear of what the Dowager Queen could tell her. Had Mother indeed gone to King Aerys' bed in Queen Rhaella's place, so her friend could recover from the miscarriages? Had Joanna valued the Queen's welfare more than Father's trust? Had she put a friend above family?

Cersei couldn't believe it. It went against everything she had been thought her whole life. Family always came first. Mother wouldn't have…

"But if you want to tell me, I will listen."

Cersei blinked; Mother's face in her mind's eye was once replaced by Lady Serala's in reality.

"And if that is what you wish," Lady Serala put the needlework down on her lap and looked intensely at Cersei, "Whatever you tell me will remain between us. I have grown up with three sisters; I am quite good at keeping secrets."

 _Sisters._ Cersei wouldn't even have noticed she'd dropped the book if it hadn't fallen right on her foot. Even so, she was barely aware of the pain. _The valonqar._

"You…" She bent forward and picked up the book, then put it on her lap, not trusting her shaking hands to hold it. "You have sisters? Younger…" She swallowed hard, "Or older?"

The only thing that betrayed Lady Serala's interest in Cersei's edgy behaviour was the narrowing of her green eyes. For a moment, it seemed she might break her own rule and ask questions, but then she said in an even tone: "I am the oldest."

It seemed like the words had lifted the weight of the world off Cersei's shoulders.

 _She can't be the valonqar. I can trust her that much._

Relieved, she asked in a less breathless voice: "Where are they?"

Lady Serala shrugged her shoulders again in resignation. "Somewhere in Essos, probably, wed or about to be wed. I haven't heard from them since I left Myr."

Cersei tried to think of something else to say, but her musings were interrupted by the sound of steps approaching hastily. In a few moments, Jaime joined them at the balcony, his face pale despite previous exertion, his eyes wide open like a deer closed in on by a pack of wolves.

"Cersei." Breathless as he was, he barely pronounced her name. He needed to breathe deeply for a few moments to be able to continue at all. "I need to talk to you. Alone."

She might have scolded him for his dishevelled appearance, unbecoming of a Lannister, but it was strange for him to give in to panic like this. Whatever Father had told him (and this could be no-one's doing but Father's), it had shaken him to the core. She needed to find out what it was, quickly.

She rose out of her seat and pulled him inside by the hand, though she had no idea where she was heading. The matter clearly required absolute privacy. Where would they be safe from unwanted ears?

 _Back home, we would go to the bowels beneath Casterly Rock. No-one ever came there but us, if they are even aware of its existence._

A perfect hiding spot occurred to her, a place no-one but her knew about, but despite that, she hesitated. What if Jaime told someone? If Father found out about it, he wouldn't allow her to remain in that chamber and she would not be able to leave the Tower whenever she wished. She wouldn't be able to meet Rhaegar in secret.

 _We only had to meet in secret because of his father. If he wanted to see me now, he could just ask for me._ She had to bit her lip to prevent something between a growl and a sob from escaping her lips. _And he hasn't._

A dozen steps later, the twins found themselves in Cersei's bedchamber. At the sight of them, her other maids separated their eyes from their work (or each other) and curtsied, a few murmuring 'Milady' and 'Milord'.

"Get out." She snarled at them, her patience wearing thin fast. "Now!"

It took them forever, but they finally left her and Jaime alone. She slammed the door shut and then pulled her twin to the wall on the opposite side of the room.

"Cersei, where…" He began, but fell silent as the hidden passage was revealed.

She grabbed the nearest candle and stepped inside.

"You _mustn't_ tell anyone." She commanded as waved at him to join her. "No-one knows about it and I want it to stay that way."

His eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. "Not even Father?"

She rolled her eyes; he was so slow sometimes.

"Do you think he would let me stay here if he knew I could come and go as I please?" She hissed impatiently. "Close the door; someone might walk in and see us."

Luckily, he had enough sense to obey her swiftly. The space around them was plunged into darkness, safe for the candle in her hands. She remained close to him, acutely aware of the long line of steep steps behind her back. Falling down them would cause injuries that wouldn't be easily explained.

"So what is it?" She whispered, not wanting to take any chances, even if this was the safest from prying ears she believed they could be inside the Red Keep. "What did Father tell you?"

His eyes fluttered shut and he breathed in deeply; whether to calm his racing heart or to relish in her scent, she couldn't say.

"He…" When he opened his eyes again, black as night in the shadows that surrounded them, their gaze was piercing as a blade. "He had arranged a marriage for me."

Upon hearing those words, Cersei's lungs emptied of every breath, her heart of every beat, her mind of every thought. The hollowness couldn't have lasted more than a few moments, but each of them seemed like an eternity to her as she struggled to come to terms with the impossible – Jaime loving someone other than her.

"With whom?" She didn't trust herself to say more; her control over her wrath was already fragile. If she let it loose, all their secrecy would be for nothing.

Jaime seemed surprised by her reaction, but made no remark about it.

"Ashara Dayne." He answered after a brief silence.

She couldn't tell what he thought of his future bride from the way he said her name; neither did she care. That marriage could not come to pass. Jaime belonged to her, her twin, her other half. She would not allow some… _whore_ to take him away.

"I am to meet her at the tournament." He filled the silence that had arisen in the absence of her answer. "We should be wed soon afterwards, here in the capital. Father wants me to keep practicing with Ser Barristan."

The shadows around them began to dance in the rhythm of the shaking of Cersei's hands. So, not only should she let her twin be bound to someone else; she would have to witness the moment when it would be done and then spend time with her goodsister? She should just let her loss be rubbed in her face?

"I will not allow it." She spat fiercely, fury bursting out of her like a tidal wave. "We cannot be parted."

To her (unpleasant) surprise, his eyes narrowed.

"You left me for the stupid prince," He stated coldly, crossing his arms over his chest, "And nearly paid for it with your life."

She nearly threw the candle into his face. How dare he?

For the first time in their lives, her glare had no effect on him. His posture was calm and certain, like a swordsman confident in his own skill at the dawn of the most important duel of his life.

"If you want me to choose you, Cersei, you must choose me too." He said firmly, never separating his eyes from hers. "I have given my word to Uncle Kevan that I will wed whoever Father chooses; he wouldn't have taken me to you otherwise. But I would break that and every vow I will ever have made for you – if you would do the same for me."

His demand left her at a loss for words. He was still loyal to her, he desired _her_ , only her. But how could he ask of her to give up Rhaegar, to give up the crown? How could he ask her to turn her back on the glorious future that awaited her?

But if Rhaegar didn't want her anymore, why shouldn't she turn her back on him as well and run away with her twin? It would prove she didn't need him. She would have Jaime and in him, she would have everything she needed – a brother, a friend, a lover.

( _Everything but a crown. He cannot give me a crown._ )

"We can run away." Jaime grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, sensing her hesitation. "We will go somewhere far away, where no-one knows who we are. We can become sellswords or pirates or whatever we like. We will be together."

His words painted a life of freedom, of waking to a new place every day, of adventure, of _them_. It sounded like a dream come true. If only it was the only one.

"Jaime, we are one-and-ten." She pointed out breathlessly, desperately grasping onto practicalities to give herself time to think. "If we ran away, we would have no money, no food. Where would we go?"

Her words somewhat diminished the flame in his eyes, but didn't extinguish it.

"I will learn everything I can from Ser Barristan, and I will teach you too." He said firmly. "I will not stop practicing until I can best even Ser Arthur. And when I do, we will run and find someone to take us in as mercenaries or personal guard. We will be so good nobody will turn us away."

She couldn't imagine anyone could ever best Ser Arthur, but the words never left her mouth. She couldn't bring herself to crush that dream when a part of her wished it to become real too.

"It's just a few years, Cersei." He said ardently, excitement sparking in his eyes. "And then we will be free. From Father, from duty to the family, from marriages, from everything."

Rhaegar's face flashed in front of her eyes. _You and I have much to accomplish together, Cersei Lannister. You will return to me._

Then Maggy's. _And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."_

Did it even matter which path she chose if they both led to the same destination?

"Cersei."

In a heartbeat, Maggy's face changed back into Jaime's; he was shaking her lightly, trying to draw her attention.

"You will come with me, won't you?" He asked, his voice suddenly uncertain.

Gently, but resolutely, she removed her hand from his grasp.

"You mustn't fall in love with her." She said softly, as if it wasn't a stern warning. "And when you kiss her or…" She paused for a moment, tasting the swear word on her tongue, "Fuck her – you must always see _me_."

He nodded his head solemnly.

She nearly rolled her eyes at his blindness. He had made a promise, but failed to notice she'd made none.

"Let's go back." She said evenly. _Before you realize your mistake_. "Before our absence is noticed."


	16. XVI

***peeks awkwardly around the corner* I...have got an update for you?**

 **Thank you all who haven't given up on this story (and all new people who have joined the ride since the last chapter was posted). I'm sorry there hasn't been an update for so long, but you know, real life, lack of inspiration, final season of GoT (let's not talk about that last one) etc. I hope your patience is rewarded in this chapter and that it doesn't disappoint (like season 8 - we're still not talking about it, are we?)**

 **I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistake.**

She tugged at the golden lock with the hairbrush, willing it with all her might to _grow_.

And another. And another. _And another._ She pulled at them until her teeth gritted and she nearly cried out in pain and helplessness.

It was all to no avail. She still looked… _ugly_.

 _I can't face Rhaegar like this._ She watched her reflection bite its lip in the looking glass, her eyes glazed with tears that threatened to fall. _I can't face him like this._

The tournament was about to start; everyone was probably already there, waiting eagerly for the first round to begin. She had promised she would arrive in time, but moments passed by and she still couldn't separate her eyes from the unfamiliar face that stared back at her. The girl in the looking glass was pale and thin, her cheeks hollow, her eyes red from sleepless nights. There was no curtain of golden hair to hide behind; the whole world could bear witness to her weakness.

Father was probably counting last heartbeats before he would send someone to bring her to him, by what was left of her hair if they had to. Jaime was probably too excited to even notice she was not there. Despite having constantly complained about how he couldn't take part in the tournament, he had barely been able to contain his eagerness that morning while they'd been breaking their fast. He'd stopped talking about how he would have liked to compete only after Father had coldly warned him not to be ridiculous; he had duty to House Lannister and he would never become a knight of Kingsguard. There had been no mention of Ashara Dayne, at least not out loud, but her name had lingered between the Lannister twins like an axe above their necks, about to take one life and separate them forever. Cersei had been relieved when Father had dismissed them, but the relief had soon been replaced with dread when she had realized all those lords who had come to swear loyalty to Rhaegar – and their daughters, who had come to steal him from her – would see her there, looking more like a kitchen boy than the future Queen. She would be mocked and laughed at, however silently (because no-one would dare offend Father openly). She couldn't even bear to think about the possibility of Rhaegar turning away from her; she might survive everything else, but his disgust would shatter her.

She had long since come to a decision, even if she hadn't been aware of it until then.

She stood up and stormed out of the room, only vaguely aware of the two guards Father had tasked with accompanying her to the tournament calling after her as she rushed downstairs, accompanied by the sound of shoes and boots clacking against the stone floor. Desperate to run away, she stumbled at each step, using the walls of the Tower to keep her from falling every time she lost her balance. For the first time in her life, she was glad to be wearing a dress instead of armour; even though the crimson skirts were often in the way and constantly threatened to trip her, at least the dress was light compared to the armour the guards were wearing. It slowed them down, enough for her to escape their sight, even if she was rushing through the corridors without any idea where she was heading.

If she wasn't in that hectic state of mind, maybe she would have heard the sound of steps coming towards her. She wouldn't have blindly turned around the corner and collided with a person she realized in shock was Queen Rhaella.

"You-Your-Queen Mother." She curtsied quickly, her head bowed low – the only way she could hide her flushed cheeks. As terror and shame seized her, she felt like every bone in her body was trembling in the rhythm of her frenzied heartbeat. "I-I apologize, I…I didn't mean…"

"It's alright." The queen interrupted her line of unfinished sentences softly. "We are unharmed."

Cersei raised her head only enough so she could look at the queen through her eyelashes and saw Prince Viserys in her arms. The boy was turned away from her, clearly scared by her sudden appearance. For a moment, what was left of her confidence sank even lower, but then she remembered Queen Rhaella's words about her younger son's fear of nearly everyone. If anything, he didn't turn away from her because of how she looked now; he would have shied away from her all the same if she was still beautiful. The notion was comforting in a strange kind of way; Cersei took what she could get.

"I…" She cleared her throat, which allowed her a moment to collect her thoughts, and raised her head a little more. Seeing two knights of Kingsguard and two maids standing behind Queen Rhaella made her swallow hard, but somehow she found a way to force proper words out of her mouth. "I hope I find you and Prince Viserys in good health."

"We are in perfect health, thanks be to the gods." Queen Rhaella replied as she ruffled the boy's silver hair gently. Her violet eyes, however, remained fixed on Cersei. "Do _we_ find _you_ in poor health, Lady Cersei? Why aren't you at the tournament?"

For a moment, she considered lying and saying she indeed wasn't feeling well; it would be a perfect explanation of her absence from the tournament. However, now that she was finally face to face with the queen again, she couldn't afford to be sent away under the excuse of endangering the queen and the prince's health. She craved answers, however terrifying they might be, and she couldn't bring herself to leave Queen Rhaella's presence without getting them.

But if she couldn't use illness as an excuse, what answer could she give to the queen?

In the lack of an alternative convincing lie, all she had left to say was the truth.

"I can't go." Her voice was barely a whisper, so soft only Queen Rhaella could hear it. She hated how feeble and bitter her voice sounded, but she couldn't stop either emotion from pouring into it. "Not…not looking like _this_."

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She bit her lip angrily, punishing it for allowing them to escape. Why had she said anything? Why had she allowed Queen Rhaella to see her weak – again? What was it about the queen that made Cersei share things with her she would never share with anyone else?

"Well, if you have no other plan in mind, we would be happy if you joined us."

Cersei raised her eyes to the queen's sharply, torn between disbelief and gratitude. Her tongue seemed to tangle into knots every time she opened her mouth to say something, to thank the queen or to wonder why she didn't judge her for being weak, she couldn't tell.

"Milady!" A breathless call startled both women.

Cersei swallowed hard as she turned to face one of the guards she'd left behind in the Tower of the Hand. She'd lost her chance to get away; they feared Father too much to be swayed by her pleads to let her stay in the Red Keep.

"Queen Mother." The guard bowed at the waist at Queen Rhaella before turning to Cersei, his features filled with urgency. "Milady, you are expected at the tournament. Your father…"

"You may tell Lord Lannister I have asked of Lady Cersei to keep me and the prince company." Queen Rhaella interrupted him firmly, with an air of authority so definite Cersei could barely believe her own eyes and ears. Was this the same woman who had stood silently with her eyes downcast as King Aerys threatened her life on the day of Cersei's arrival to King's Landing?

The guard opened his mouth as if to protest, but then thought better of it.

"I will let Lord Lannister know." He said as he bowed again. His posture might be nothing but respectful, but his tone seemed to say 'Risking his displeasure is on your heads'.

As she watched him set off in the direction he'd come from, Cersei did her best to convince herself not to run after him. Father surely hadn't forgotten her last act of disobedience, though he had yet to discipline her for it; challenging his patience further was hardly a wise course of action. Part of her still worried about what he might take away from her as punishment for her defiance upon his return to the capital; it was impossible for her not to feel uneasy, knowing what he was capable of.

The other part of her remained steadfast in her decision not to let him know that. She was aware that she had crossed a line with him and she had to stay on this side if she wanted to ever be free of his shadow.

"I'm afraid you are stuck with us now." Queen Rhaella's voice snapped her out of her musings, drawing her attention back to the silver-haired woman.

"Thank you, Queen Mother." She curtsied with more genuine respect and gratitude than ever before in her life, then looked the woman in the eye to let her know she truly meant every word. "For your understanding and help."

"You are welcome." Queen Rhaella acknowledged her words with a nod, then beckoned for her to head in the direction she'd come from. "Come. It is too beautiful a day to be wasted inside."

Now that she was safe from public humiliation, Cersei felt inclined to agree. She fell into step next to Queen Mother, careful not to venture too close to the prince in her arms. Surprisingly, it was a gesture done for his sake, not hers. Perhaps, if she didn't pressure him, he might come to realize she wasn't dangerous on his own.

Soon enough, they emerged from the shades of the Red Keep into a garden bathed in sunlight. Green of trees and grass, red of the castle walls, blue of the sky and gold of the sun collided fiercely, like knights in the tournament must have been doing in that same moment. It was just a little too warm for Cersei's taste; she sank down into the shade of a tree next to Queen Rhaella all too easily after the queen's maids had laid a blanket onto the grass for them to sit on. Unlike the women, the knights in white remained standing in the sun to watch over them. None of them was Ser Arthur or Ser Barristan, her twin's tutor; she guessed they were at the tournament, with the king.

Determined not to think about Rhaegar, Cersei let her gaze rest absently on his little brother. Queen Rhaella had lowered him to the ground gently and kept a steadying hand on him as he tried to keep his balance. The young prince made one uncertain step, then momentarily lost his footing, but she was there to prevent him from falling. He tried again, this time managing a few steps before grabbing her hand with his tiny ones to keep himself steady. He was entirely occupied with his struggle and didn't notice Cersei watching him.

However, the child she was watching and the child she was seeing were not the same. The child in her mind's eye was golden-haired, short and ugly, with mismatched eyes. The child she'd hated since the moment he'd torn Mother apart to come into the world.

Before Mother's death, she wondered, had she looked forward to having another sibling? Had she hoped for a sister or another brother? Had she relished in the thought of being revered, the greatest hero in someone's eyes?

In eyes of a child whose older brother paid little attention to him – just as he did to her?

Could Prince Viserys be the perfect little sibling she should have had, beautiful like her, innocent of any crime, even if he didn't look anything like a Lannister?

 _Sometimes_ , Words she couldn't quite place made way through her mind, but by the time she realized where that line of thought would lead, it was too late to turn back, _I would catch myself thinking your twins were mine, even if they didn't look like me._

One thought led to another. _Thanks to her, I was given time to recover._

And another. _And our nights together? Do you remember them, Joanna?_

"Queen Mother?" She heard herself saying, her voice sounding like a stranger's to her own ears.

A smile was still playing on Queen Rhaella's lips when she raised her head to look at her, but as soon as their eyes met, Queen Mother's expression turned sombre, mirroring solemnity that coloured Cersei's voice. Her silver eyebrows rose inquiringly, but she didn't speak, instead waiting for Cersei to muster the nerve to continue.

Torn between the desire for answers and fear of what they might entail, she struggled to collect her thoughts, let alone convey them. "Could we…" She cleared her throat nervously, "Could we speak in private?"

Surprise sparked in Queen Rhaella's violet eyes, but after a moment of silence, she nodded. She lifted the young prince off the ground and placed him on her lap, then gestured to the maids to leave them be. The women stood up and obeyed her command without a word, but Cersei could feel their gazes on her and the queen even as they joined the Kingsguard in the sun. Letting out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding, she reminded herself to keep her voice down; the subject she wanted to discuss was for Queen Rhaella's ears only.

"I…" Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced it out, along with words. "In Duskendale…shortly before he died…King Aerys had asked to see me."

When she didn't continue immediately, Queen Rhaella closed her eyes and sighed.

"Whatever he said to you, you mustn't take it to heart." She said reassuringly as her kind gaze came to rest on Cersei again. "You have done nothing wrong. His behaviour towards you was uncivil for reasons that have nothing to do with you."

Cersei took a deep breath. She really didn't want to cause unnecessary pain to either herself or Queen Rhaella, but she _had to_ know the truth.

"On the contrary, Queen Mother." Her voice turned into whisper. "He was kind to me that last time. Because…" She cleared her throat once more and forced herself to utter the words. "Because he thought I was Joanna."

Startled, the silver-haired woman inhaled sharply. Cersei felt her own breath catch again; what did Queen Mother think King Aerys had said to her?

"He…he told me…" Words tumbled from her lips clumsily; her dry mouth only hindered her further, but she had to know, she _had to_. "He mentioned they had spent nights together. He said…he hoped Jaime and I were his children. He…" She couldn't even summon the rest of his words to memory, but it didn't even matter. Only one thing did. "It…It's not true, is it?"

To her surprise, Queen Rhaella's features relaxed, as if she was relieved. Her lips even curled into a smile.

"Your mother never shared his bed." The reassurance in her voice was firm and genuine. "He only believed she had." Suddenly, the smile vanished from her face, as if she was reminded of unpleasant memories. "Until the very end, luckily for us all."

Cersei tried to make sense of her words, but kept feeling like she only knew bits of the story, still blind to the whole truth. Her need for answers was physically painful, but she couldn't shake it off any more than she would have been able to shake off an aching limb. She had to know, to be certain of who Mother had been – and who _she_ was.

"I thought…" She breathed in and out deeply, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. "I thought her intention had been to…distract him, while you…recovered."

Queen Rhaella pulled Prince Viserys closer against her chest instantly, as if even the briefest mention of the fate of her other children could harm him and her embrace was armour that would protect him. Her gaze came to rest on the top of his silver head, even as she continued to speak to Cersei.

"That _was_ her intention." She nodded almost absently. "But she didn't do it herself."

Her answer made Cersei no less confused. How could have King Aerys believed Mother had shared his bed if she had not? How could have he not realized it wasn't her?

"But how…" There were just too many questions for her to decide which to ask first; her voice helplessly drifted off into silence.

After a few moments, Queen Rhaella locked eyes with her again.

"Your mother had a bastard sister, Lynora, daughter of your grandfather Jason and a serving girl." She said in a manner of a storyteller, ruffling Prince Viserys' silver hair gently as she talked. "I doubt you know of her. She died before you were born, I think."

Cersei shrugged her shoulders; she indeed knew nothing of the woman. She had been a bastard, hardly someone worth mentioning when there had been many much more famous trueborn Lannisters.

"I didn't even know of her existence until Joanna brought her to King's Landing after…" Queen Rhaella visibly shivered, despite the warmth of the day. "…Until she brought her here with an idea that could have got them, and even your father, killed if Aerys had learned of it."

Despite knowing Mother's plan had worked, Cersei swallowed hard. How far Mother was willing to go for her friend. For someone who wasn't family, and yet…

"It wasn't hard for Joanna to convince Aerys of something he wanted to believe anyway." Queen Rhaella said with an indifferent shrug. "He wanted to hear she loved him and not your father, so he didn't question the woman who met him at night – Lynora."

"But how didn't he realize it was not Mother?" Cersei asked in disbelief.

Queen Mother smiled nostalgically.

"When I first saw Joanna and Lynora standing next to one another, I couldn't tell them apart – and I had known Joanna for years. They were so alike."

 _Like twins._ Flashed through Cersei's mind. _But not like me and Jaime. We are different – closer._

( _Are we not?_ )

"With your father's help, Lynora met Aerys pretending to be Joanna and continued to do so even after your mother had gone back to Casterly Rock." Queen Rhaella's smile gradually faltered as she spoke, until her eyes darkened in sorrow that made the previous spark of joy seem like it had never been there at all. "I don't even know how she managed to keep up the pretence for as long as she did."

She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, as if cleansing her mind from painful memories. "I am ashamed to say I never spared a moment to ask her. I was just relieved someone else was the object of Aerys' attention and never thought about the danger she found herself every time he went to her."

After a few moments of processing Queen Mother's words, Cersei slowly nodded. She understood why that story had been kept secret during King Aerys' reign. How would he have reacted if he'd learned he'd been bedding a bastard girl posing as the woman he'd lusted after? He would surely have punished Father for his part in the plot, which would have cost Cersei any chance to be wed to Rhaegar – if it wouldn't have cost them all their heads. She let out a deep sigh of relief; they were as much as out of reach of King Aerys now as he was out of theirs. They were safe.

"But didn't King Aerys realize the truth when my mother returned to the capital?" She asked with a lump in her throat, thinking of her own first visit to King's Landing, less than a year before Mother's death.

Queen Rhaella shook her head dispiritedly.

"Lynora didn't die in King's Landing." She replied quietly, again pulling the prince closer against her chest instinctively. "A few moons prior to her death, she went back to Casterly Rock. I only learned she had died when Joanna told me so in person, years later. Fever took her, poor woman."

Cersei couldn't find it in herself to grieve for a woman she had never met, so she remained silent and contemplated all she'd heard. It was a relief to know her fears had been misplaced, but it was still somewhat hard for her to believe Mother had risked Father, her House and her own position in the Realm, all for _a friend_. Great Houses knew no friendships, only alliances or enmity. Friendships were a source of vulnerability, as her experience with Melara had shown.

 _But Ser Arthur is Rhaegar's strength – just as Mother was Queen Rhaella's._ The thought crossed her mind. _Maybe it depends on the friend._

"You were lucky to have her as a friend." She said absently, realizing a heartbeat too late her words could easily be interpreted as discourteous, and hurriedly tried to correct herself. "I mean, she was lucky to have you as a friend too, but…" She blinked uninvited tears away and steeled herself against the longing inside. "I wish…I wish she was here."

Queen Rhaella nodded compassionately. "I know. Her absence has cost _you_ most. Your father…" She paused briefly, as if considering the dangers of possibly speaking ill of Tywin Lannister, but then continued gently: "I am sure he has tried his best, but absence of a mother's love in her children's life leaves a mark."

Cersei could do little else but nod in agreement, though she barely kept what was really on her mind to herself: _It's even worse now. I miss her every day, but I know she doesn't miss me. I wish I could still believe that she misses us, that she_ _ **cares**_ _about us._

"I could never replace Joanna in your life." Queen Rhaella's fingers wrapped around hers gently, making her raise her head. Queen Mother's gaze was just as kind and reassuring as her touch, melting off Cersei's fury at the audacity of such a suggestion. "But I want you to know that if you ever need to talk to someone – to a woman – about anything, you can always come to me."

Even though she was still somewhat distraught, Cersei couldn't help smiling. She was genuinely touched by Queen Rhaella's benevolence and her gratefulness could be heard when she said: "Thank you, for being so kind to me."

Though her expression remained solemn, Queen Rhaella's eyes lit up, as if a candle had been lit in them to chase away the shadows.

"Let us not speak of death anymore." She said softly, gesturing to the maids to join them again. "You can tell me more about your brother. I have not seen much of him since he arrived to the capital, but he seems a fine young man."

Talking about Jaime came easily to Cersei, though she had to tread carefully not to say too much on some matters. She kept his less than perfect skills and his promise to her to herself and praised his talent with a sword, his loyalty and devotion to her as his twin (though only in the form of love a brother felt for a sister) and, surprisingly, his kindness and love for Tyrion. It was strange to speak of anything involving Tyrion in a positive light, but she kept reminding herself of the decision she had made regarding him on her last night in Casterly Rock and it was enough to make her words about him sound caring. Queen Rhaella didn't seem to notice anything amiss – or she simply chose not to make remarks. She never interrupted her and only occasionally asked questions when Cersei paused to take a breath. She _was_ a good listener; Cersei felt like she was indeed interested in what she was saying. They also spoke of their favourite fabrics, colours, books, songs; Queen Rhaella even promised to teach her the words of her favourite song – _Flowers of spring_ – someday and Cersei found she looked forward to it.

Morning seemed to have flown by in a few heartbeats; sometime after midday, Queen Rhaella invited her to her chambers to escape the growing warmth of the day and break their fast. Cersei wouldn't refuse even if she could; all her worries were forgotten as she talked spiritedly to the queen, with enthusiasm she hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.

As they ate, she stole a few glances at the queen and the prince sitting on her lap and realized she was smiling as she watched them play with food. With a teasing spark in her eyes, Queen Rhaella made as if to eat a piece of apple, but when Prince Viserys reached out towards her and let out a soft whine, she paused for a moment, as if reconsidering her decision, and then put the piece of fruit gently into his mouth with a loving smile. The prince hummed contently, but soon whined for another piece, which Queen Mother provided without any tricks. Cersei couldn't remember if she had ever sat at a table where everyone was so relaxed, so _happy_. There was no tension in the air, no need to choose one's words carefully. She caught herself wishing she could break her fast with the queen and the prince every day, instead of being subjugated to Father's judging stares and suffocating silences. She seemed to have ceased to exist for him after the events in Duskendale (or maybe after she had belied him upon his return to King's Landing). He occasionally spoke to Jaime, but always curtly and without an ounce of affection Queen Rhaella was showering her younger son in front of Cersei's eyes.

 _I wish they were my family._ She thought as she watched the mother and the son, longing for love Mother had had no time to give her and Father was incapable of giving. _I wish it was them, me and Jaime – and Mother. And if she was here, then maybe…maybe I would even let Tyrion be with us too. Maybe._

She was snapped out of her ponderings of what could never be by the sound of door opening – and froze at the sight of Rhaegar staring at her in unmasked shock, as if he hadn't even in his wildest dreams imagined he might find her there.

"Rhaegar." Queen Rhaella didn't sound surprised in the slightest to see him. She rose to her feet with Prince Viserys in her arms and curtsied with a welcoming smile, seemingly unaware of the tension that had filled the room the moment her eldest son had entered it.

It was only then Cersei remembered she should do the same. Her bones felt like stone as she stood up in silence, her body repeating long since learned movements completely mechanically. Unable to bear the king's shaken gaze, she lowered her own and stared at her feet, wishing she could disappear into the wall behind her.

 _He saw me looking like this. How will he ever love me now?_

"Will you join us?" Queen Rhaella's voice reached her ears. Was it just her inability to hear anything clearly beneath the sound of her racing heartbeat or had Queen Mother's voice become significantly more serious? "There is plenty of food left."

It seemed like a lifetime had passed before Rhaegar answered.

"I will not." His voice sounded breathless to Cersei, but she didn't dare risk meeting his eyes by raising her head to check. "I…Forgive me for disturbing you."

"You are not disturbing us, of course." His mother replied, brushing off his apology gently. "Lady Lannister has been keeping me and Viserys company. I have sent a guard to notify the Hand of her whereabouts."

"I…" Rhaegar paused again, still clearly stunned and at a loss for words. "Good. She was safe with you. That's all that matters."

Cersei couldn't guess what he meant. Had he said that because it was expected of him…or because he genuinely cared about her wellbeing?

"Please, continue with your meal." His voice now sounded firmer, steadier. "I will see you at the feast tonight."

It was only when she could no longer hear the sound of his steps that Cersei let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Her heart thundered inside her chest and her skin was covered in gooseflesh, despite the warmth. She more collapsed than sat back onto the chair, struggling to regain her composure.

Had he meant he wanted her to be at the feast as well? Did he want to see her there – despite her appearance? Or had it been just a mere courtesy on his part?

"Lady Cersei?"

Even as she looked at Queen Rhaella, it took a few moments for her to actually see the silver-haired woman. All her senses seemed blurred; she didn't trust herself to speak.

"If you want to leave now, I won't stop you." Queen Mother said softly, clearly aware of the way the encounter with Rhaegar after so much time had affected her. "We will see each other at the feast – if you feel well enough to attend it."

She nodded without even knowing fully what she was agreeing with and rose to her shaky feet again. After curtsying stiffly, she let her quivering legs carry her away, leaning absently on the walls with her hands to keep herself steady as she went. She had no idea where she was going, too lost in her thoughts; she was only snapped out of her reverie when she nearly ran into Father and Jaime after making a turn left in one of the corridors.

"Cersei." Her twin rushed to her side immediately, sensing her distress.

She leaned on him, clenching her fists so he wouldn't notice her hands were shaking. She refused to look at Father, who was surely scowling at her display of weakness and need for support.

"How was the tournament?" The question was meant to distract Jaime, as she was unwilling to answer his or Father's questions. They didn't need to know what had shaken her so.

"Are you alright?" Her twin ignored her question like she had never asked it. She had no doubts he had intended to retell every round to her to the tinniest detail, but seeing her like this had made him forget there had even been a tournament. "Should we send for the Grandmaester?"

"No." She shook her head adamantly; the last thing she wanted was to provide the Grandmaester Pycelle with an excuse to touch her again. She just needed to return to her chambers and lie down before her body betrayed her. "It must be the heat. A bit of rest and I will be fine."

Jaime's emerald eyes narrowed doubtingly. "Are you certain?"

If she felt more like herself, she would be angry with him for questioning her.

"Yes." She nodded; her voice sounded exhausted even to her own ears.

She was about to pull him by the hand to make him follow her, but was startled into motionless when Father spoke.

"How was your day with Queen Mother?"

Her gaze clashed with his without her control. She knew there was an ulterior motive behind his unexpected curiosity and refused to play by his rules.

"It was…good." She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, determined to give him the briefest description she could think of. "We talked and she invited me to share a meal with her. I was just on my way back to my chambers."

She didn't like the calculating spark that lit up his green eyes, like a blade bathed in sunlight.

"Did you see the king?" He asked with no emotion in his voice, always in almost perfect control of his reactions.

There was no point in lying. He _knew_.

"Yes." She nodded, sensing Jaime's grasp on her tightening when she'd uttered the word. She nearly rolled her eyes; to her regret, his jealousy was unwarranted. "Only for a few moments."

Her answer inspired a reaction, a displeased frown. She recoiled uneasily under his piercing gaze, fighting to keep her eyes on his.

"May I be excused?" She asked as evenly as she could manage, trying to imitate his level of control. "I would like to rest before the feast tonight."

His eyes widened slightly, as if he was caught off guard by her decision to attend the feast. She was slightly surprised herself, with the fear of mockery and sneers from other highborn girls lingering in the back of her mind, but there and then, she was determined to appear before them – before Rhaegar – at the feast. She would watch them, see who would laugh at her and remember, so she could one day pay her debts.

Having nothing more to say, Father walked past her and Jaime as if they weren't even there. They followed him in silence, not wanting to disturb the uneasy peace lingering between them and him. After his back disappeared behind the door of his study, the two of them strode further down the corridor soundlessly until they reached the door of Cersei's chambers. The guard standing there went to push it open for them, but just as he reached for the doorknob, the door opened, revealing Lady Serala.

"My lady, my lord." She curtsied swiftly before stretching her hand out towards Cersei, a letter lying on her palm. "This arrived for you while you were…absent, my lady."

 _Is it from Rhaegar?_ Cersei's mind jumped to the most desirable conclusion at once, only to be restrained by her logic. _It can't be. If he had sent me something, he wouldn't have reacted as he did when he saw me._

She didn't really have the strength or the will to bother with reading the letter, but she did need a distraction, so she unravelled the piece of parchment and went through its contents quickly. Even without paying too close attention, she gathered it depicted what had been happening back home in the last few weeks…and was signed _Jaime_.

"What's this?" She turned on her heel to face her twin.

He frowned at her accusing tone. "I would say it's a letter." He quipped sarcastically. "I don't know what it says, as you didn't let me finish."

She let out a hiss through her nostrils; by the gods, it took him _ages_ to read anything.

"It's a letter from Casterly Rock, signed with _your_ name." She nearly rubbed the letter into his face literally, but managed to restrain herself and only pointed at his name written on the parchment.

The irritation in his features turned into confusion. "I didn't write that."

Her eyes narrowed at him, trying to catch him in a lie, but he seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Who did then?" She demanded sharply, silently cursing the fraud who dared use her bond with her twin in this violating way. She would find them and make them regret even using the letters Jaime's name was made of.

His brow furrowed as he contemplated the identity of the person who had written the letter. A few moments passed in silence, but then his eyes widened and his mouth fell open in awe as a realization dawned on him.

"I think…" He blinked in disbelief, as if struggling with what his mind was telling him. "I think Tyrion did."

Of all people he could have named, Tyrion would have to be the last one Cersei would have thought of. "Don't be ridiculous." She scoffed disdainfully. "He is only four. He can't even read."

To her displeasure, his gaze sharpened, turning into a cross glare.

"He can, actually." He countered firmly, with a haughty stance she didn't appreciate. "He is quite smart. Even you couldn't read at his age."

She very nearly slapped him there and then and she had never raised a hand to him before. How dare he rub the fact the little beast was better at something than her in her face?

A disgusting thought crossed her mind. Since she had gone to the capital, she had been receiving letters from Casterly Rock written in the same chaotic handwriting she was looking at now. She had believed it was Jaime's, but what if…

"So, all this time since I left Casterly Rock," The words tasted so bitter in her mouth she had to spit them out, lest she be poisoned by them, "I have been receiving letters from him, not from you?"

Jaime nodded with eagerness that infuriated her.

"I was too angry with you for leaving to read your letters." His posture tensed; he still hadn't forgiven her for that perceived betrayal. "I didn't believe Tyrion when he told me he wrote to you, but it seems I underestimated him. He even signed the letters with my name, probably because he thought you were more likely to reply to me than to him."

Cersei felt rage bubbling beneath. She clenched her fists, reminding herself it wasn't befitting of a lady to stoop down to violence.

"Don't sound so impressed!" She hissed furiously, struggling to keep her voice down. "He is a fraud! What if I have written…" She bit her tongue, catching herself in the nick of time, "Something he shouldn't have read?"

Jaime, as always, was blind to the danger. "He meant no harm, Cersei." His attempt to soothe her only riled her up more. "He just wanted to…"

"I don't care what he wanted!" She cut him off loudly, not caring they could be overheard. "He invaded my privacy – _our_ privacy – just like he'd invaded our lives the day he was born!"

Jaime's eyes darkened. He was glaring at her again, this time with pure and utter contempt that had never been directed at her before.

"I will write an answer to him before the feast." His voice was cold, cold and cutting. "I will tell him not to write to you anymore. He will be better off in ignorance on his sister's sentiments towards him. It would be for the best if he forgot you even existed."

Maggy's words started echoing within her mind even before he finished, still as ominous as they had been since they had been uttered: _And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you._

She couldn't allow it to come to pass. She _wouldn't_.

"No." She said unyieldingly, letting every bit of her determination pour into the words. "You will write no letter."

Her command clearly took him aback, but she continued before he could speak.

"This is between me and him." She raised the letter between them, emphasising her meaning. "You stay out of it."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn't let him. "I mean it, Jaime." Her determination was unwavering. "Yes, my bond with Tyrion is difficult at best, but it is what it is. I don't want you to meddle."

"He is my brother too." He countered snappily. "I _will_ meddle if I think you will hurt him." _And I think you will._ Remained unspoken.

Cersei was not used to defiance from him. He was the only one she could count on to do as she said, without any questions asked. It seemed their bond was changing too. She was just about to accuse him of ruining everything they had, but then realized what his answer would be.

 _You started ruining it when you chose the prince over me._

And she wasn't sure he would be wrong.

Having no other choice at the moment, she opted to compromise, however grudgingly.

"I promise I will not hurt him." She said, keeping her eyes fixed on his. He had to believe her. "Do you promise not to meddle?"

He stared at her in bewilderment for a few silent moments, unable to accept what he had heard. Then he nodded slowly, as if a part of him would rather shake his head and deny her the promise.

The sight of him became unbearable.

She turned on her heel and slammed the door into his face before he could say anything else.

"Don't let him in." She said curtly to Lady Serala, who was busy staring intently at the needlework in her hands. She had obviously heard everything, but Cersei didn't have the patience even to threaten her to keep the contents of her and Jaime's argument to herself. The woman knew better than to cross her. "Don't let _anyone_ in."

Without a second glance in the red-haired woman's direction, she walked over to the bed and threw herself on it, trying to trick her mind into resting along with her body.

If only she could sleep through this day, this century. If only she could wake up to another world, one where her mother would be by her side, her father would appreciate her and her king would love her.

 _ **You could have chosen to join your mother. If you had, you wouldn't care about the rest.**_

She rolled her eyes behind closed eyelids. Trust her unwanted companion to speak up when her taunts were the last thing she needed.

 _ **As for other things you wouldn't care about, I want an explanation regarding the fate you think awaits you at the hands of a younger sibling.**_

And trust her to inquire about things no-one knew and shouldn't know about.

 _You live inside my mind._ She pointed out drily, cross that her secrets were no longer just her own. Hosting the spirit of Queen Visenya definitely wasn't as glorious as she had thought it would be. In all truth, she was getting tired of it – only to remember she was stuck in this arrangement for life. _Can't you find that out on your own?_

 _ **Do you know how many thoughts and memories you have?**_ Visenya answered in equally sardonic tone. _**Your mind is like an endless hallway with thousands of doors on each side. You would be dead before I found the memory I want.**_

Cersei looked for a retort for a few moments, but found none. Suddenly, exhaustion overwhelmed her and made her rage with Visenya, with Jaime, with Tyrion, with Rhaegar simply melt off. Too tired to argue, she felt her defences fall down and thoughts start to flow.

 _I went to see a woman during the king's visit to Casterly Rock last year to learn if I would marry the prince. She said I would wed the king, be Queen for a time and then cast down by another._ She sighed heavily, but that was the most of flare she could summon. If the younger queen from the prophecy appeared then and there and tried to strike her, she wasn't sure she would even have the strength to raise a hand to defend herself. _She said the three children I would have would die before me and that the valonqar would take everything I hold dear._

Visenya didn't respond right away, probably pondering the prophecy.

 _ **Who was this woman?**_ She said at last, not offering any opinion on what Cersei had told her.

Cersei might have refused to answer until the queen shared her thoughts with her – if the tiredness in her very bones wasn't weighing her down and robbing her of any strength of will.

 _She is known as Maggy the Frog in Westerlands, but it's said she's come from Essos with her husband years ago._ She shrugged her shoulders absently, though Visenya couldn't see it. _I don't know her real name._

 _ **Maggy?**_ Visenya asked straightaway. _**Or maegi?**_

Cersei couldn't tell, as she was unfamiliar with the second pronunciation of the word. _What does maegi mean?_

 _ **It is an old name for sorceresses who practice bloodmagic.**_ _**They are very rare in Essos and even rarer in Westeros.**_

Upon hearing those words, Cersei swallowed hard. _She did drink my blood before she told me my future._

 _ **Then I would advise you not to dismiss her words.**_ The gravity of Visenya's words was unnerving; she wasn't jesting. _**Every practice of bloodmagic takes a great deal of a maegi's power. She wouldn't have foretold you your future for no reason.**_

Cersei shivered instinctively. _She didn't want to tell us our futures at first_ , She admitted with a lump in her throat, _Only after I threatened her. Maybe she just wanted to have revenge on me._

Visenya made no remark on her words, but she did have more to say. _**Us? Who was with you?**_

 _One of my…companions._ Cersei couldn't bring herself to call Melara a friend. _The witch told her she would die the same day. And she did._

She didn't want to say more, but of course, Visenya had to ask: _**How?**_

Cersei's heart started pounding wildly inside her chest. Being on the brink of admitting the true nature of her relationship with Jaime to anyone (even if it was the voice no-one but her could hear) felt beyond strange. On the other hand, Visenya would hardly judge her; if there was anyone she could share that secret with without fear, it was someone who bore the name Targaryen.

 _I forbade her to go anywhere near Jaime. She threatened to tell everyone we were…_ She took a deep breath, trying to think of a good way to explain it. _I love my brother the same way you love yours._

 _ **I disagree.**_ Visenya countered immediately, sounding so unimpressed with her confession and completely unappreciative of the effort it had taken for her to divulge it. _**My love for Aegon was lasting and steadfast. If the late king had agreed to a betrothal between you and the prince, you wouldn't have looked back twice.**_

The words felt like a slap, leaving Cersei breathless and stunned for a few moments. No-one had ever belittled her relationship with Jaime like this; it was always admired, never scorned.

(Another reason she was caught on the wrong foot was because she knew Visenya was right. She _would_ have left Jaime for Rhaegar – she _had_.)

 _ **So, the girl found out about you and your brother – what happened next?**_

She breathed in and out twice, until she felt confident enough to continue. _She threatened to tell everyone about me and Jaime if I didn't let her have him. She believed Jaime only saw me as a sister and that the only reason she had never seen him with another girl was because I scared every girl away from him because I was jealous._

 _ **I think she believed only the parts that suited her.**_ Visenya observed derisively. _**So she could reconcile her own attraction to your brother and disgust with his feelings for you.**_

Cersei hadn't thought of that explanation before, but it certainly made sense.

 _We started arguing and pushing one another as we walked back…_ She remembered the hits taken and delivered, threats uttered, the terror in Melara's eyes as she lost her balance and fell into the blackness. _And we didn't look where we were going and…she fell into a well._

The silence lingered between them, but Visenya didn't interrupt it, as if determined to make Cersei finish the story.

 _Can you take responsibility for his death?_ The queen of old had asked her once. _Can you admit to the world and to yourself that you did it? Can you face the consequences?_

Pain spread through her hands as her nails pierced the skin of her palms. It hurt – but she bore it. _I can._

 _I let her drown._ She admitted emotionlessly, as if she had never been there, listening to Melara's pleads. _She wanted something of mine and her knowledge posed a danger to me and my family. I listened to her beg and scream for help – until she didn't beg anymore._

Air filled her lungs as she breathed in, so loudly (or so it seemed to her) she feared she might miss Visenya's answer. She held her breath for as long as she could, but the need to exhale overwhelmed her all too soon. With the exhale, the indifference began wearing off her and Melara's warning started echoing in her mind again, sounding like a promise for vengeance.

 _You said the maegi wouldn't have foretold my future for no reason._ She said, out of curiosity just as much as out of need for a distraction. _She might have wanted to punish me for threatening her, but why did she waste her powers on Melara?_

Silence rose between them once again, and lasted far too long for Cersei's liking. She considered reaching out to Visenya so she could search her thoughts for answers, but even if she knew where to start looking, intruding on the dragonqueen like that seemed like a bad idea. Visenya would surely turn against her for that and the last thing she needed was an enemy inside her own mind.

 _ **The girl was the first one to die at your hand.**_ Visenya said at last, seemingly unaware of her less than honourable contemplations. _**If you hadn't learned to be merciless then, maybe you would have hesitated to kill that boy in Duskendale and then…maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation at all.**_

Cersei wasn't sure she understood. _You are saying I was meant to kill Melara to learn how to be merciless, so I could…survive something worse?_

 _ **As I have said**_ , The dragonqueen said in a sensible tone, _**the maegi wouldn't have wasted her strength to use bloodmagic for no reason. The girl had a part to play, as do you, even if you don't know what it is.**_

 _I know what it is._ Cersei bit back sharply. _I am meant to be Queen._

 _ **Yes, but what kind of Queen?**_

She thought she had an answer to that, until the moment she realized she didn't.

She had never thought about it, not clearly. What kind of Queen _did_ she want to be? Kind and gentle, beloved by all, like Queen Alysanne? Unyielding and determined like Rhaenyra? Fierce and strong like Visenya?

Like all of them, all at once? Or Queen like none before her?

 _I need to become Queen first._ She said at last; she would think of an answer to Visenya's question some other time. _And I can't do that if I don't speak to Rhaegar. I will go to him after the feast and I will not leave until he explains why he has been avoiding me._

 _ **He is the king.**_ Visenya countered evenly. _**You can't command him.**_

That was true. But she had something that might draw him in, like it had that night in Casterly Rock, the only time she had seen him as utterly absorbed by her as he'd been today.

 _No, I can't._ She agreed as numbness overwhelmed her. _But I can make him command me to stay._

* * *

When he returned to his chambers, still shocked and out of breath, his instincts instantly made him reach for the harp, the one source of peace he could always count on to soothe his darkest moods. Music would help him calm down. Music would drive _her_ away.

When he raised the instrument, his trembling hands nearly dropped it.

When he touched the wires, they produced unsteady, frustrated tunes that were fighting an invisible force. Beneath his quivering fingers, tones clashed and collided like knights had done that morning, clenching of teeth instead of a bird's song, screeching of iron against iron instead of a breeze whispering.

 _I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair._

He had not been prepared to face her; the sight of her – still lovely, despite what she might think about her appearance – had caught him entirely off guard. In that moment, he had been unable to speak or even breathe, his mind captivated by her so completely there had been room for nothing else, not for reason, not for the warnings of his visions, for anything but the desire to walk over to her and kiss her hand tenderly, to breathe in the scent of her skin, to run his fingers through her golden hair which he knew deep down would grow long and beautiful again, because he had seen it in his dreams…

How foolish he'd acted; how careless he'd been.

How could he keep her close without raising her hopes? How could he keep her at a distance without making her hate him?

How could he change what he'd seen in his dreams?

Helplessness weighed upon him like he was drowning with his wrists and ankles bound with iron chains. He played and played, but the melody never pacified, never found a stable pace his heartbeat could follow. The more he fought to find peace, the more it eluded him, until he let his emotions loose and the music became a wild tangle of fear, longing, hope and loss. It went on and on, for moments, hours, ages.

Until a familiar voice called: "Rhaegar?"

The bitter melody ended abruptly; at the same moment, he became aware of the ache that flooded his hands from the wrists to the tips of his fingers. Forcing himself to relax his grip on the harp, he raised his head to lock eyes with Mother.

To his surprise, she was alone; he couldn't even begin to guess what could have made her part from Viserys. Behind her, Arthur was still standing at his post at the door, looking at him, making sure her presence wasn't unwanted. After a brief nod from the king, the Kingsguard closed the door and left the two Targaryens alone.

"Why aren't you with Viserys?" He asked, still holding onto the harp, as if it could protect him – from the only person he was certain he would never need protection from.

She walked over and seated herself on the bed next to him. Her hands grasped the harp gently and removed it from his numb fingers.

"Because my other son needs me more." She replied softly as her hands filled the emptiness left by the harp and squeezed his reassuringly. "I would like to ease his burdens if I can."

He sighed, but remained silent, unable to find the right words. How could he explain to her what was troubling him – without making her think he was losing his mind?

Mother could apparently read the answer from his features.

"You seemed shocked by her presence in my chambers." There was no doubt as to whom she was referring to. "Even though you'd asked me to get to know her upon your return from Casterly Rock."

He nodded helplessly, knowing how irrational his behaviour seemed.

She squeezed his hand once again gently. "What has changed between you and her?"

Too much. Too much had changed and he had no idea how to explain or fix it.

"I am afraid of the Hand's influence on me." He lied, unable to think of any other acceptable reason for his distancing from Lady Lannister. "He will use her as a tool to control me if I let it."

His lie didn't fool her. "Her father was the same all those moons ago." She pointed out sensibly. "His plans and desires have not changed."

Her violet eyes stared at him piercingly, as if they could see into the deepest corners of his being. _Have yours?_

His plans? Vastly. His desires? Immensely.

"I just…" He started, but found himself lacking words.

He just couldn't bring himself to admit his greatest secret to her. What if she laughed at him – or even worse, began to fear him? What if she came to think he'd gone mad, like so many Targaryens before him?

"I can tell you what I have observed of her since she came to the capital." Mother interrupted the silence that had emerged after his voice had drifted off into disheartened silence. Her expression was solemn, but calm, like her voice. "There is a fierce pride about her, as can be expected, given who her father is."

He couldn't disagree. Cersei Lannister indeed _was_ proud – so proud that she would rise to her feet again and again, no matter how many times he knocked her on the ground, ever more determined to strike back. Accepting defeat was not in her nature – just one of many things he admired about her.

"But beneath the façade, she is just a young girl who wants to be loved." Something sparked in Mother's eyes for a moment; tears – or sympathy? "Even though she is afraid to love – because she has been taught that love is weakness."

That didn't come as a surprise. Tywin Lannister was hardly a man who encouraged or provided affection.

"She can be selfish," The queen continued, "But she can also be kind."

That was true too. Everything about her was complex, her family, her character and her future.

Maybe her future was the least complex of all, if only he could bring himself to acknowledge it unquestionably and act accordingly.

"And while her loyalty to her House is strong, it is not unyielding." Mother said with finality to her tone. "I think she would be more likely to help you stand the ground against the Hand than help him undermine you."

That did surprise him; then again, he had spoken to her so rarely he could hardly claim he knew her thoughts. They had spoken mostly in different tongue – the tongue of blades and steel. There had been so few words exchanged between them.

( _It occurred to him in that moment how little he knew about her. What sweets did she like best? What was her favourite song?_ )

He shouldn't entertain such thoughts. He needed to keep his distance. He needed to…

"Those are the sides of her _I_ have seen." Mother's voice interrupted his thoughts. He didn't miss the implication her words held – that he had seen sides to Cersei Lannister she hadn't.

If only she knew.

But she could know – if he could bring himself to tell her.

He removed one hand from her grasp and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Where to begin? His dreams and the old prophecies? The moment he had first become interested in Cersei Lannister?

"When we visited Casterly Rock last year, she confided in me about…" The words 'prophecy' just wouldn't leave his mouth, forcing him to look for a replacement, "Something that troubled her." He finished uncertainly. "It is what first sparked my interest in her."

He took a breath and licked his dry lips. Luckily, Mother didn't attack him with questions. She sat in silence and stared at him attentively, waiting patiently for him to continue.

"I made a deal with her on our way back to King's Landing." If he could not admit one truth to her, he could admit others. "I promised to teach her swordplay. And I did, at night, in one of empty rooms beneath the Red Keep."

Mother's expression remained unchanged, as though she wasn't at all surprised by that revelation. She must have suspected they had been meeting, even if she couldn't guess when or where. Still, she didn't speak and Rhaegar was grateful for it, because he doubted he would be able to share all his secrets with her if she interrupted him.

"And when Father decided to take her to Duskendale, I tried to reason with him – for her sake." In that moment, the guilt he felt over Father's death sank even deeper. He had begged him not to take her with him, not to stay in King's Landing himself. "I should have begged him to stay in the Red Keep." He barely noticed his voice had turned into whisper. "They both should have stayed."

 _Father would still be alive. I wouldn't be King. Maybe I wouldn't even have dreamt that dream._

Mother took his hand into hers again. "You couldn't have known what was going to happen." She said gently. "You can't blame…"

"But I do." He cut her off gravely, knowing what she was going to say. She couldn't understand the depth of his despair. A man who could see flashes of the future – and still so helpless. "I was too focused on her, on what she had said to me, on what it meant…"

"And what was it?" She asked him, loudly and clearly. Her gaze was filled with resolution, as though she had decided she wouldn't leave his chambers until she got the answer.

In face of that fierce determination, his already cracked walls stood no chance. He wanted to share this burden with someone, someone who wouldn't use it against him.

"A woman in Lannisport had foretold her her future." He wanted to say more, but this secret – this prophecy – wasn't his to share. Despite everything, he didn't want to betray Cersei Lannister's trust. On the other hand, he felt he had to explain his curiosity about it, lest he risk being deemed a naïve fool. "It was very…detailed. And not…impossible."

Whatever reaction he had expected, pure and unconcealed rage wasn't it. Mother was still sitting calmly next to him, but fire was burning in her darkened eyes and her grip had tightened around his hands almost until the point of pain.

"Living in the future," She all but snarled at him, looking like she was barely holding back. He had never seen her in such a state; he could barely recognize her, "Brings only pain and misery to the present. Without you even noticing."

Her nails ran into his skin, her gaze burning into his.

"Do _not_ let prophecies take over your life." She told – no, _commanded_ – him. "They will ruin it and lives of all those you love."

Her ominous words made him shiver.

"What do you know of prophecies?" He asked in a trembling voice, genuinely afraid of her in that moment like he had never been afraid of Father.

The intensity of her gaze lessened a bit, as if she had sensed his discomfort and didn't want him to be frightened. Nonetheless, her eyes still gazed at him sharply, insisting he heeded her warnings.

"I know your father and I were married because of one, even though neither he nor I wanted it." She wasn't snarling anymore, but her voice was cold and her tone contemptuous. "I never forgave our parents for forcing us into it – and I don't think your father had either."

He hadn't known that. He had thought Mother and Father had married because it was a Targaryen tradition, not because of a prophecy – prophecy whose contents he still didn't know.

"But what could it have said that made them wed you?" He asked, careful not to sound too eager to hear the answer. "If you were both so opposed to it?

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him with suspicion about his intentions. She had never looked at him like that all his life; it was like he was locking eyes with a stranger.

"The Prince That Was Promised was supposed to be born from our line." She said at last, sounding like she was spitting the first five words. "Apparently, that presumption was worth condemning both of us to an unhappy life together. I do not wish to insult your father's memory, but he was a better brother than a husband."

When she put it like that, taking prophecies into account did seem cruel. Guilt crept into his mind; wasn't he doing the same? He had been ignoring Cersei Lannister without even a word of explanation as to why for weeks now. Maybe he had managed to fool himself into believing she wasn't affected by it, but their accidental meeting today had turned that belief into ash.

"The Realm needs you here and now," Mother knelt down in front of him, her tone now beseeching, "Promise me your decisions will not be affected by prophecies."

His breath caught in his throat. How could he make that promise? How could he make it and mean it?

"But what if…" He tried weakly, but she cut him off.

"Promise me." She insisted, almost desperately, as if on the brink of breaking.

He took a deep breath – and pulled his hands out of hers.

"I am sorry, Mother," He said, his voice filled with regret – and resolve, "But I can't."

She stared at him with wide eyes for another moment, stunned by his refusal. Then she stood up and straightened down the skirts of her dress, the sight of a gracious, dutiful queen.

"If you will excuse me, Your Grace," He could feel the distance between them growing, her faith in him fading, "I need to return to Viserys."

Unable to find words, he merely nodded her dismissal. She curtsied and was gone in a few heartbeats, but her disappointed expression lingered in his mind long after he'd stopped hearing the sound of her steps.

He wanted to go to her and say the words to keep her happy, but he knew she wouldn't believe him. She would probably think even less of him if he tried to trick her. His actions had not only cost him the most trusted ally in the castle, but even worse, he had lost another family member, even though she was still breathing. Viserys was still too young to support him and Aemon was too far away.

He felt more alone than ever before.

 _Living in the future brings only pain and misery to the present._

How much could he take before he drowned in it?

* * *

The hall was filled with clinking of plates and goblets, with vivid chatter and loud laughter, with scent of meat and fruit and all sorts of wine gold could buy. The briefest glance revealed it was a feast only the royal family and the wealthiest Houses could afford. Ashara knew Starfall would never witness such extravagance – and it was only the first night of the tournament.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the boy sitting at her right. Her betrothed had barely spared her a few looks and even less words over the course of the evening, too busy staring at the plate in front of him, as if it held all the secrets he desired to know. Next to him, his twin mirrored his stance, silence surrounding them like walls of a fort. Between them and her father on her left-hand side, there was no way to escape it.

Because of her upcoming marriage to the Lannister heir, the Daynes were seated next to the family of the Hand, closest to the king on his right-hand side. On the other side of her father sat the Martells, Doran, Oberyn and Elia. Across the hall, on the king's left-hand side, sat the Velaryons, the Baratheons and the Hightowers, three families with past ties to the royal family. Furthest from the king's table were the Tullys, the Tyrells, the Starks, the Arryns and the Greyjoys. Whoever made sitting arrangements knew their history; placing the Greyjoys, the Starks and the Tullys in too close proximity would have been a disaster. The Arryns and the Tyrells kept them just far enough apart to keep the old grievances buried beneath pleasantries.

Since the beginning of the feast, many had left their tables to join the conversation at one of the other ones. The Baratheon heir had joined the Stark children while their father had moved to sit next to Lord Arryn. The two men more talked than ate, but they were too far away for her to hear or read from their lips what they were talking about. Lord Tully was speaking to Lord Baratheon and Lord Hightower was seated at the Tyrell table, talking to the head of the House in all but name, according to the rumours, Lady Olenna Redwyne.

"Would your betrothed mind if I steal you for a moment?" A familiar voice whispered teasingly into her ear as a warm hand curled around her shoulder.

She was on her feet even before answering Elia. "I don't think he will even notice." She said lowly as he passed her friend by. "Besides, I am not going far."

Elia returned to her spot next to Oberyn while Ashara took Doran's empty chair. The eldest Martell, as serious as she remembered him from her childhood, had exchanged the company of his siblings for that of Lord Tully and his brother. Next to them, his lack of muscle that came from polishing skills with various weapons was even more obvious, but those who underestimated him and the sharpness of his mind did so at their peril.

Rare few underestimated his younger brother, especially after the incident with Lord Yronwood years before. The Red Viper, as he had been called since, shot her a daring grin, which she returned in a blink of an eye. It seemed like they had never changed from the spirited children who had shared games and secrets in the Water Gardens – before they learned there were more dangerous secrets, more dangerous games.

"I must confess I am jealous of the Lannister boy." Oberyn said as he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. "It is his luck that he didn't have to choose between two most beautiful women in the Realm. An impossible choice."

"Save your flattering for girls who don't know you as well as we do." Elia interjected before Ashara could reply.

She snorted in amusement under her breath. Clearly nothing had changed between the Martell siblings.

"Well, judging by his behaviour, I don't think he had any choice in the matter." She sighed; this marriage might not have been her choice either, but it didn't mean she wasn't displeased by Jaime Lannister's absolute lack of interest in her. "I could forgive his distraction during the tournament – he is just a boy after all – but he has barely paid me any attention during the feast."

Oberyn's impish grin widened. "If I didn't know you as well as I do, I might think you were offended by his lack of interest in you."

His tone was teasing, but his words kept ringing in her ears. She hadn't expected the boy to fall in love with her instantly, of course, but she definitely hadn't counted with him ignoring her completely. She wasn't used to being ignored; her beauty guaranteed the attention of men. So what was so different about Jaime Lannister that he couldn't even pay her the simplest courtesy?

"He is young." Elia came to her rescue. "He could be intimidated by the mere idea of marriage – or the fact his bride is older than him." She winked mischievously at her friend. "I am sure Ashara's charms will make him come around soon enough."

Ashara bowed her head in mock modesty. "I will do my best."

"I'm sure you will." Oberyn said cheekily and helped himself to more wine.

Suddenly, the cacophony in the hall grew quieter.

As one, Ashara and two Martells turned to the king's table. He was on his feet, heading towards the Hightowers. Every pair of eyes in the room watched him approach Lady Leyla Hightower and offer her his hand.

The girl's astonishment was obvious; only after a not so subtle nudge from her father did she raise her hand and put it in the king's. She seemed to barely keep her balance on her shaking legs as she followed him to the middle of the hall, where the few dancers were moving out of the way to make room for them. The bewilderment in her features had been replaced by dread and when the king turned to face her again, she didn't even try to meet his eye, but kept her gaze on his chest. Her skin was almost paler than the fabric of her dress, as though there was not a single drop of blood beneath it. Ashara hoped for her sake that the Grandmaester was ready to react should the poor girl faint, because it was definitely not out of the realm of possibility.

The king seemed not to notice any of it – or maybe he simply didn't care. His posture was still rigid, but he met Lady Hightower's hesitant steps with grace, his attention fixed solely on her, as if he wasn't aware of the numerous eyes on them.

Or as if he was only too aware of them.

All of a sudden, his intention became clear to Ashara. He had chosen the plainest girl in the room, the one nobody – not even the Lady herself – believed could become Queen, so he could show the lords his decision wouldn't be so easily guessed. The next girl he chose might just be the next Queen – or he might save the last dance for the chosen one. Nobody would know until the very end.

Despite herself, she was impressed. The new king might be many things, but he was not foolish.

"Well, I am not fooled by his display." Oberyn stated flatly as he took a gulp of wine. "The Hightower girl is about as likely to be the next Queen as I am."

Ashara couldn't help grinning. "You would make a lovely Queen, though."

Oberyn sighed theatrically. "I know."

"Lady Ashara."

She turned her back to Oberyn to face the owner of the voice that had called her name – her betrothed.

"My lord." She was stunned to see him standing there, looking almost as nervous and pale as Lady Hightower.

"May I…" His voice drifted off into silence before she could even begin to guess what he had meant to ask. When he finally found the words, it was the lowest of whispers. "Will you dance with me… my lady?"

Taken by surprise, but in control of her features, she gave him her loveliest smile. "I would love to, my lord."

He helped her to her feet, then led her among the dancing couples. His back was turned to his family, which allowed Ashara a good view on them. Lord Lannister looked only slightly less stern than usually as he observed them – or maybe his gaze was resting on the king and Lady Hightower, who were dancing nearby.

Her gaze then fell on Cersei Lannister.

The girl was glaring at them, anger twisting her lovely features. When her eyes met Ashara's, the furious glint in the emerald orbs became murderous for a moment before the girl's gaze returned back to her plate, as if she couldn't even bear the sight of them.

Ashara couldn't understand why the girl was so upset; it wasn't like she had stolen her brother's attention just as they had been discussing something important. They had barely looked at each other all evening. Besides, the boy would soon become Ashara's husband; Cersei Lannister could hardly expect he would have as much time for her as before.

Something wasn't quite right about her rage and Ashara was determined to find out what. She needed a weapon that could be used against her new family if she wanted to survive in a lion's den and this – whatever it was – might just be it.

"Your sister seems upset." She whispered to her betrothed just before they started dancing. "Is she unwell?"

His eyes widened in fear for the briefest of moments, as if he was on the brink of leaving her and rushing instantly to his sister's side. The dance made them part then, so she didn't have the chance to try to guess his thoughts for long; when his eyes locked with hers again, his features were schooled into a solemn, unreadable expression.

"She was unwell earlier today." He replied formally. "She should have stayed in her chambers, but she insisted on going to the feast."

They parted again, so she couldn't answer him right away. Casting another glance at the Lannister table, she saw nothing had changed. Cersei Lannister was still looking at everything except for the couples that were dancing.

It occurred to Ashara that maybe she wasn't the reason for the girl's fury.

"I suppose she didn't want to offend the king." She suggested quietly when they came closer again. "She had already missed the opening of the tournament this morning."

Cersei Lannister's absence from the tournament had been a source of gossip all day. It had been suggested her captivity in Duskendale had cost her her mind, her health, her maidenhead. As far as Ashara could say, the only thing that stood out about her was her short hair, unusual for a highborn girl. If that was the only mark the imprisonment in Duskendale had left on her, she should consider herself lucky; there were scars than ran far deeper.

"Queen Mother wasn't there either and the king wasn't offended by her absence." When he spoke to her again, Jaime's voice held a note of anger too. It was somewhat uncanny how alike the twins were; their faces might be just one face and its reflection in the looking glass. "Why should it be any different for Cersei?"

Ashara thought the answer was rather obvious.

"Because Queen Rhaella is his mother." She replied firmly. "Of course his treatment of her is different than his treatment of everyone else, including your sister."

When his eyes narrowed at her and he opened his mouth to object, she realized his views on the matter were far from objective. His sister was clearly a weak spot that wasn't to be touched – yet.

"Please, let us not argue." She said softly when they met again, before he could speak. "We have only just met and we are supposed to spend the rest of our lives together. I don't think we should start fighting within the first week of our acquaintance."

He blinked in surprise at her words, his objections dying on his lips. Luckily for him, they were again separated for a few moments. Ashara waited for their next reunion impatiently; what answer would he give her?

To her surprise, the next time she laid eyes on him, he was smiling.

"Maybe within the second week." He said quietly, teasing glow colouring the emerald orbs.

A smile escaped her lips without her even planning it. She shouldn't encourage him to dismiss serious matters with jests, but for now, it might actually benefit them.

"You should spend some time living under the same roof with Oberyn Martell." She told him, half-teasingly – half-truthfully. "That experience teaches one patience and restraint like no other. There is hardly anything you can do that will provoke me."

His smile disappeared almost instantly. Another weak spot.

"I will try not to anger you, my lady." There was no playfulness in his voice anymore – as if he intended to try to keep his word and knew he would fail.

She yearned to know exactly what was on his mind, but decided against pressuring him. For now, she would pretend they were still jesting with each other, even though she meant her next words as seriously as he had meant his last.

"A wise choice, my lord." Her smile was just a bit too sweet to be honest. "Because I can be quite dangerous when I am angry."

* * *

"And look-look at the Lannisters!" The Baratheon heir, a bit deeper in his cups than he ought to be, pointed in the direction of said family with his forefinger. "It seems they forgot which one is supposed to wear breeches and which one gown!"

Lyanna bit her lip for the hundredth time since he had joined them. He had told many jokes trying to impress her – and she had been trying even harder not to laugh at them. She didn't want to give him (or Father) any reason to think she was falling for his charms. She was _not_. Just because he had quick wit and amiable nature didn't mean she would agree to be wed to him. She had plans for her future – plans that were far more important than one persistent lord.

Unfortunately, she couldn't simply ask him to go away. He was the future lord of Stormlands, as Father had mentioned to her more than once, but more importantly, he was Ned's friend. She didn't want to hurt her beloved brother, so she bore Robert Baratheon's attention with patience she didn't know she was capable of.

In attempt to appear polite, she glanced at the table where the Lannister family was seated. Only two of three seats were taken, but she didn't even try to locate the missing lion. To her utmost delight, the sight of the golden-haired girl who looked more like a boy than a girl gave her an idea. If she cut off her hair, maybe she could sneak in to compete on the tournament. And then she could ride and fight and win…

"I feel I'm getting closer to melting your cold northern heart, my lady." She was suddenly exposed to the smell of wine coming from too short a distance. Robert Baratheon no longer towered above her, but bowed down so their faces were in the same level.

She must have smiled at the wrong moment. _By the gods, I will never smile again_ , she swore, wishing he had remained up straight.

"I…" She cleared her throat, struggling to move a bit further away so she could _breathe_.

Her eyes met her brother's; Ned only shrugged helplessly.

Well, if he refused to help her, then she would pull him down with her.

"How long did it take you to melt Ned's heart?" She asked, taking shallow breaths through her mouth.

Robert threw his head backwards and laughed, taking the smell away, thank the gods.

"He fought me every step of the way." He clasped Ned's shoulder with friendly familiarity. "But I broke him at last. The first time he cracked a smile, his teeth gritted so loudly it could be heard at the Moon's door."

Now she did laugh, truly, because she knew it took a long time for Ned to relax around people he wasn't close to. He was different than her and Brandon and even Benjen, who were loud and wild no matter whom they were surrounded with. It didn't make her love him any less though.

"Will you dance with me, my lady?" An unfamiliar voice spoke, bringing her back to her senses.

She opened her mouth to refuse, but was caught off guard when she realized who had asked her for a dance. It was the king himself.

"Um…" Her first instinct was still to say no, but she was aware that Father would disown her then and there if she insulted the king. Having no choice, she forced herself to nod. "I would be honoured, Your Grace."

She allowed him to lead her into the middle of the hall by the hand and took her place facing him as the music started again. As they danced, it took every bit of her willpower not to look at her own feet and every bit of her focus to execute the steps correctly. The king was less a real person and more a wooden dummy in her mind, an opponent that couldn't surprise her if she just remained concentrated. She knew Father was watching (as was probably everyone in the hall) and that she had to present herself in the best light to the king and the lords of the Realm. She couldn't embarrass herself, her family or the North. She _wouldn't_. She just had to endure this for a little while longer and then…

"My cousin should think twice before he speaks about matters he knows little about."

She nearly missed a step when the king spoke suddenly, but managed to keep her balance. She remained silent for a few moments and a few steps that took her to be certain she could spare a bit of her attention for the conversation.

"What do you mean, Your Grace?" She asked when they came closer again.

For the first time since he had asked her for a dance, she actually saw him instead of seeing through him and was quite cross with herself for finding that he was _handsome_. Not in the way Robert Baratheon was handsome – she could admit that Ned's friend was handsome, however grudgingly – King Rhaegar's beauty was…almost otherworldly. His features were regal and impeccably shaped and his long silver hair reminded her of winter's first snow, untouched and unblemished. But her attention was drawn to his striking violet eyes, their darkness perfectly dissimilar to the paleness of his hair and skin. He was…

"Lady Cersei's hair was a small price to pay for her escape from Duskendale." His answer interrupted her musings. "She saved herself from those who meant her harm and she should be admired for it, not mocked."

That made her mind abandon the thoughts of him for a moment. "She saved herself?" She asked in disbelief, barely restraining herself from scoffing at the suggestion. Southern girls weren't like Northern girls. They didn't save themselves but waited to be rescued – except for perhaps in Dorne. And Cersei Lannister wasn't Dornish. "How?"

Judging by the way his eyes narrowed, he didn't appreciate her display of scepticism. Which was unfair, in her opinion; how many ladies did he know that fought their own battles instead of having men do it for them?

"You can ask her yourself." He said at last, his tone dancing on thin line between firm and cold.

Lyanna wasn't unsettled by his stance. He might be King and he might be…fine-looking, but she was still determined to have the final word.

"I most certainly will." She said with a saccharine smile. "That should make for an interesting story. Thank you for mentioning it to me, Your Grace."

When his eyes widened in surprise, she knew she had won.

They spent the rest of the dance in silence.

When the music finally ended, she turned her back on the table where her family was sitting and went straight for the Lannister table. The chair next to Cersei Lannister was still unoccupied, so she rushed to it as fast as she could without actually running. She almost seated herself without a word, but then remembered her manners.

"Excuse me, but may I join you?"

Cersei Lannister raised her head and shot her a bewildered look that soon gained a stern edge.

"My brother sits here." She said dismissively and returned her gaze to the plate in front of her.

But Lyanna wouldn't be chased away so easily. She wanted to hear about the Cersei Lannister's escape from Duskendale. If she got to annoy the unkind girl with her presence as well, that would make it even more fun.

She glanced around, as if looking for the named owner of the chair, then lowered herself leisurely into it. "I don't see him." She shrugged her shoulders in mock indifference. "I won't be here for long. I just wanted to ask you something."

Cersei's brow furrowed as rage sparked in her green eyes. "If you have a jest about my appearance on your mind, I suggest that you rethink whether you want to say it out loud."

"I have no jest on my mind, but my question is about your hair." Lyanna returned her gaze calmly, not intimidated by the unsaid threat. "I want to know what happened to it – what happened to _you_ in Duskendale."

Her answer seemed to have confused Cersei for a moment, before suspicion coloured her features.

"Why do you want to know?" The golden-haired girl asked warily. She clearly still believed Lyanna was hiding a prank at her expense up her sleeves.

"Because I was told you had saved yourself instead of waiting for someone else to save you." Lyanna said straightforwardly. Wordplays weren't her strong point; if she had anything to say, she said it directly. "If that is true, then I am impressed."

Cersei shot her a sharp look. "It is true."

In return, Lyanna shot her a challenging grin. "Tell me every little detail and maybe I will believe you."

Offended, Cersei crossed her arms over her chest.

"Why should I tell you anything?" She demanded acidly. "Why should I care whether you believe me?"

"Because," Lyanna helped herself to the other girl's goblet and a cup and poured water into the goblet. She put the goblet in front of Cersei and looked at her intensely, "I am probably the only lady in this hall who is more impressed by one's survival skills than one's sewing skills. All these girls would have waited to be rescued if they had been in your place in Duskendale. I, like you, would not."

The intensity and suspicion in Cersei's gaze lessened. She stared at Lyanna in contemplative silence for a few more moments, then stretched her hand out.

"We haven't been formally introduced." She pointed out firmly. "Lady Cersei of House Lannister."

Lyanna accepted the offered hand. "Lady Lyanna of House Stark."

They shook hands. Cersei had a strong grip, stronger than Lyanna would have expected.

"Now, I want to hear all about your battle scars." She glanced at the short golden hair suggestively, then locked eyes with Cersei again with an amused grin on her lips. "To me, you can boast about them all you like."


End file.
